Another Day, Another Pound Sterling
by Comic-cake
Summary: Another Rogan. Yay! I'll try and keep this one light. :-p
1. The Boss

Okay, so this little fic is to give me a short break from my other ongoing story, which is creeping uncontrollably down a dark and intense path and as much as I love it, it's taking it out of me! :-)

I'll do my best to keep this one light (let's see if I can!). It's AU. I think it'll only be a few chapters long, although I'm not sure where it's going, other than a Rogan ending (of course - what else? - it's me writing this!)

* * *

"Someone was asking after you while you were out at lunch Marie."

There's a smile in Jenny's voice and that usual playful sparkle in her blue eyes.

"Yeah?" I reply with disinterest as I slip out of my coat and slump heavily into the chair, my mind immediately switching to the statistics I'm trying to pull together for the person who single-handedly makes my life a living hell. Also known as my boss.

I'm intensely aware of the aforementioned boss, peering across at me from the other side of the office, his beady little eyes like two sunken pieces of gravel in his round fleshy head. He looks more piggy-like than usual today, his swollen face flushed pink. I need to get this damn spreadsheet complete because I could do without another excuse for him to haul my arse into his office.

Jenny, unconcerned by the boss's stares, files her nails, not even pretending to look busy, sitting back lazily in her chair, "Yeah, he was sexy as hell!"

I smile briefly but my eyes remain on my screen. She thinks any man with a pulse is sexy.

"He walked into the office and stood right there," she wiggles her painted finger tips loosely in the direction of the area in front of our desks. "Shame you missed him, he was a towering hunk of gorgeousness."

"Can you pass the hole-punch?" I ask in response.

"Marie girl, you need a man in your life, someone just like him, y'know, a bit of rough."

I glance up for a moment and roll my eyes at her. Men; they're all the same. Unreliable. And I think I must blend into the wall or something, because they never notice me anyway.

Jenny on the other hand, well that's a girl who gets noticed. With her bouncing curls of golden brown hair, the mixture of colours reminding me of fallen autumn leaves, and the sweet sprinkling of freckles across her heart-shaped face, she turns heads wherever she goes. Combine that with the flirting she so effortlessly engages in on a daily basis and there you have my best friend. I love her dearly but we're polar opposites when it comes to the art of dating.

So maybe I should make more of an effort? Polish my nails and wear some lipstick? Hitch my skirt up higher or try stilettos rather than my comfy skinny jeans and heeled boots?

Or maybe I should get on with my work, because that damn deadline is looming.

Anyway, I like who I am and I'm comfortable in my own skin. And don't even get me started on the topic of my skin…

"Men only bring complications," I grumble, my eyes swinging back to the screen. Why can't I get this calculation right? Why aren't my figures adding up? Damn this spreadsheet. Honestly, I feel like I'm trapped in one of those little excel cells right now, boxed in and sealed tight, no escape...

"A bit of action is precisely what you need Marie," she waggles her eyebrows up and down, making it perfectly clearly what she means by 'action'.

"Haven't you got any work to do?" I mutter as she turns her attention to her PC, scanning idly through facebook.

Yes, life is certainly different – _mundane?_ - compared to the old times at Xavier's mansion, but I had no choice but to leave that place and start over. It's not been easy but I've worked hard to create this existence. I'm independent and fiercely proud of it. I have my friends; we giggle a lot and occasionally drink too much, but ultimately, I'm content. I guess.

I jump in fright when I notice the shadow of mr-piggy hovering over my desk, his flesh glistening with a layer of sweat, his pinpoints-for-eyes lingering over my chest, making me squirm inside with discomfort.

"You got them figures together Marie?"

His hand it palm-flat on the paper document I'm working on, his fingers spread and porky like raw sausages. My stomach rolls a little at how close his fleshy hand is to my own, but I manage to maintain my poker face.

"I'll have them to you by close of business," I reply politely, swallowing against his leering stare, concentrating hard to look engrossed in the spreadsheet I'm working on. It takes all of my energy not to flinch away from his lecherous gaze.

After what feels like an eternity he makes a 'humph' sound and shuffles away, leaving a sweaty handprint on my document, the ink slightly smudged where his palm rested. I need to get these figures wrapped up otherwise I face his perverted little eyes in that dank cupboard-sized office of his. A repulsive wave rolls slowly over me at the thought.

I glance up at the clock sat high on the wall, the clock whose hands seem to permanently move in slow motion. Only fifteen minutes to go until we can head to our local bar for a much-needed ice-cold bottle of beer. Only quarter of an hour until this damn day, this hellish working week, is finally over.

"Seriously Marie," Jen carries on like the piggy interruption never happened, "This chap asking after you earlier, he was all dark and brooding, jeans so tight I could read the dates on the coins in his pocket."

My initial reaction is to giggle at her comment, but my laugh cuts off sharply as my mind tunes into her words. Dark? Brooding? Tight jeans?

A shudder of something _– excitement? -_ ripples through me and I silently curse myself, shaking my head in an attempt to get rid of those feelings, causing my dark hair to tumble messily around my shoulders.

Why do my thoughts always turn to him? Why, after all this time, do I still allow him to enter my head and cause such a rush of emotion? I know my feelings were never reciprocated, and that realisation, that admittance, well it hurts like hell.

And that's why I had to leave the institute. It's the reason I left Rogue behind and started a whole new life. Because sticking around, watching him come and go without explanation and pine over Jean, it was breaking my heart.

No, I decide firmly, it couldn't be him. It's been years since I left the school and I can't think of a single reason why he would come searching for me.

"And that bonkers hair of his," Jenny continues, slicing into my thoughts, "Well, it was nearly as crazy as yours and gave him at least another two inches of height."

The impact of her words causes the hole-punch I was gripping to slip from my hands, landing on the floor with an ear-splitting crack, bursting open to a spillage of thousands of perfectly identical coloured circles, streaming across the office floor like confetti.

"Marie?"

It's Jenny's voice but I ignore her as I crouch down and my shaking hands start to pick up the paper dots. She joins me on her hands and knees to help clear up the mess, still chattering away, oblivious to my senses shutting down around me, "He must have it bad for you girl, because I turned on the charm. I mean seriously, I used some of my best moves and he barely looked my way. And do you know what he did when I said you were out at lunch?"

No answer from me, my eyes are to the floor, picking up those little dots, noting that this chaotic mess of coloured spots resembles my brain right now…

"He growled!" Jen continues as I try to remember how to breathe, "Honestly, he growled, all animal-like. Weird, but kinda' sexy. Do you know what I mean? Marie? Are you okay sweetie? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," I snap more sharply than I intended.

Why is he here? How the hell did he find me? It's taken years for my heart to heal and yet within moments it's burst right back open again, just like that hole-punch, releasing all those painful emotions.

"Hell Marie, he was yummy! Simply edible! You can't let that one slip through the net!"

I let out a sarcastic laugh. He was never in my net to start with. Nowhere near. In fact, I wasn't even old enough to go fishing back then.

Jenny continues rambling on, her words numb to my ears. With all the dots collected up, except the odd one or two, I sit back at my desk and do my best to focus on those damn statistics. I'm boneless and weak and if I weren't sat in this chair I'd flop to the floor. And I feel sick. Goddamn him.

"Jen?" I say hesitantly. She's on e-bay now, bidding on Christ only knows what.

"Yeah?" she replies absently.

"I'm not feeling too well. I think I'll skip the drinks and head straight home tonight."

She snaps around to face me, her eyes opening wide as she puts on that pleading voice of hers, "Please Marie, you've got to come out, I've been looking forward to this all week. Besides," I follow her eyes as they swing across the office to the newest member of staff who only started on Monday, "Marcus is coming along."

"Damn Jen, you didn't waste any time with him, did you?"

She smiles in response and reverts back to the internet, knowing that all it takes is her begging eyes to ensure my attendance tonight. She's already forgotten about mr-sexy-growly.

But I haven't.

With a little fudging here and there I manage to balance my figures and e-mail them over to pig-boss, just in time for him to trot out of his sweaty cupboard and straight towards me. Damn it, it's five-thirty, which means pub-time, right?

"Um…Marie?"

"Yes Harold?" because he does, in fact, have a name.

I avoid his gaze, hitting that blessed 'log-off' key before standing up and reaching for my jacket. He strides around my desk until he's stood facing me, so close I can see the hairs sprouting from his nose.

"I overheard you and Jenny saying you were going for a drink," his sausage fingers come to rest heavily on my shoulder, the clamminess of them soaking through my shirt. I shudder convulsively against his touch although he doesn't seem to notice, "Mind if I join you?"

My head searches for a reason why he can't. Come on Marie; find a believable excuse, a lie. Something. Anything…

A feeble, "That'd be great," falls out of my mouth and piggy smiles, his lips peeling back over his teeth in a leering grin.

Damnit, how do I always end up in these scenarios?

I need a drink…


	2. Guess What?

The bar moves around me, faceless bodies and noises in a blurred mass as another mouthful of beer slips icily and oh-so-pleasantly down into my stomach. There's a throng of enthusiasm and it seems everyone is feeling the same sense of Friday relief, like a weight has lifted. I try not to think about how quickly Monday morning will come around.

I glance to my right to see Marcus, his brown hair flopping casually onto his fresh handsome face, looking like he'd be well placed in a boy-band. Jenny is in full flirting mode and I can tell by body language alone that Marcus is already falling in love. As I said before, Jen has the dating game down to a fine art, but as she draws him towards her like a magnet, where does that leave me?

Oh yeah, that's right, with the undivided and lecherous attention of mr-piggy. He's standing too damn close and every time I subtly back away, he steps right back into my personal space. I can't take my eyes off his wet snouty nose-hairs and it's all I can do to keep a look of interest on my face while listening to the finer details of the sales targets set for the coming year. It's not my idea of fun, especially on a Friday evening.

The only way to combat my boredom and cope with his moist porky fingers that keep dropping onto my shoulder or forearm is to drink more beer and I'm setting a good pace, already onto my third bottle. At least he's buying the drinks.

"Oink, oink, oink," he drones on, accompanied from time to time with a spray of spit, and I nod and throw in the odd murmur of agreement, my mind elsewhere.

Jen turns to me suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts, her autumn curls bouncing gorgeously around her face. There's a twinkle in her blue eyes as she says, "Guess what?"

I shrug in response, thinking it must be something of crucial importance for her to pull herself away from her latest conquest.

She leans in closely to whisper in my ear, "Your crazy-haired friend is over there. He's watching you."

_What the fuck? Oh god!_

My heart leaps up into my throat and my chest instantly constricts. If I had the ability to play it cool perhaps I would. You know, carry on chatting with piggy, maybe even attempt to flirt, giggle, or whatever it is you do in these situations.

But I've never played anything cool in my life and my eyes immediately snap to the 'crazy-haired friend' like a compulsive uncontrollable movement. As I meet his gaze there's an instant of heat, like a power surge, the temperature dial reeling to boiling point. I can hardly believe he's here, ten strides away, leaning casually against the bar, his dark eyes never leaving mine as he takes a deep slug of whisky. An eyebrow rises in acknowledgement, a greeting without words, awaiting my reaction to his presence.

Piggy is still jabbering on unawares, his jowls wobbling in unison with his words, but I can't hear him. I can't hear anything; the ceaseless babble of the bar has dissolved into silence and the other bodies in the room have melted into the peripheral of my vision. All I see is him, his dark, intense eyes focused on mine, and we remain like that for a long time, as if entranced. A feeling rises in me, that tipsy awe-stricken feeling that I've not felt since...well...since I last laid my eyes on him almost five years ago.

The trance is severed by someone brushing the skin of my face, a soft sweeping gesture along my cheekbone. I jolt as if stroked by live wire and there are two reasons for my reaction. Firstly, I'm still getting used to people being able to touch my skin, but I'll explain all that another time. Secondly, it's because it's piggy's rubbery fingers, and as I step out of his reach he mutters something about getting more drinks and disappears.

Great. I'm not sure what's worse; piggy's clammy touch or the fact that I'm feeling a little silly right now, stood on my own, Jenny and Marcus off to my right - _they should really get a room _- while Logan's concentrated stare weighs me down.

Maybe I should walk over to him? Maybe that'd be the 'adult' thing to do. But no, I refuse to, partly because I'm stubborn, partly because I realise it's impossible since I've forgotten how to move my limbs.

But wait...he's getting closer...I'm sure of it. His shadow looms ahead of him and it's definitely creeping nearer. Holy God he's coming over! The floorboards groan in protest under his adamantium weight as he strides towards me and my pulse beats thickly at my temples.

_"Keep calm Rogue",_ my inner voice tells me, which oddly enough has an English accent, _"You're an intelligent young woman, confident and rational. Well...kind of. Anyway, you can handle this."_

I'm intensely aware of what I'm wearing, wishing more than anything that I'd made a little more effort tonight, wishing I'd put some of Jen's lipstick on...

Before I can finish that thought, he's here; stood directly in front of me so I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes because he's so goddamn tall. For a moment, neither of us speaks and there's a feeling of power involved here someplace but I can't quite understand its balance. Something flashes in his eyes, a shrouded thought deep in his glossy black irises, but I struggle to interpret it.

His head tilts in so close I can almost taste the whisky he's just swallowed, making my head swim giddily. And what he says with that gravely voice of his, well, let's just say it was unexpected...

"Seriously Marie, are you with _that _guy?"

Logan's words carry a note of disbelief and his eyes swivel briefly to piggy, whose meaty backside is wedged within the crowd of bodies at the bar.

_What?_ He turns up out of the blue, I've not seen him in years, and that's the first thing he says?

Not, _"Hi Marie, how's life been treating you, sorry I was never around, you're looking nice, how come you're not wearing any gloves, blah, blah."_ And besides that, me and piggy together? Yuk! I mean, I might be a bit desperate, but Jesus Christ...

"Why are you here?" I'm amazed and rather proud of how confident my voice sounds, which, by the way, is in complete contrast to how I feel.

He takes a deep breath and if he registers that I haven't answered his question he doesn't comment.

"You need to go back," he answers matter-of-factly. I have no idea what he means.

"Back?"

"To the school. To the X-men."

"Why?"

"They need you," he answers, a sense of urgency seeping into his words.

We both fall silent as I consider this. They need me? _They_ need me?

I'm not thinking about the bigger picture and later, when I reflect back, I'll wonder why I didn't, but for the moment, I only consider what's directly in front of me. I feel a lump of deeply suppressed fear rise up at what I have to say next, but I know it needs to be said.

"And what about you Logan? Do _you _need me?"

He's dazed, stunned for a long moment by my boldness. So am I. But I need to know where I stand with him. I must be forewarned of what emotional risks I'll be taking if I were to go back to the institute.

A surprising pang of regret strikes at the thought of leaving this life behind. It seems I have underestimated how content I am with my independent existence here, despite certain drawbacks, like my boss, who happens to have appeared by my side, face grimly set, his lips pressed together and almost white at the intrusion of this dominating man. Jen and Marcus have also sidled near, taking in the scene. To me, it seems as if the whole bar has fallen silent to await his answer. I know that can't be true of course, but that's just how it feels.

"Rogue..." he starts hesitantly.

"Who in the hell is Rogue?" interrupts Jen loudly, staring from me to Logan then back to me again.

"We need to talk Marie," Logan growls, running a hand over his sandpapery cheek, glancing around at the unblinking faces staring up at him before adding, "In private."

"Just answer my damn question Logan," I bite, and I know I'm being unfair, but so is he, turning up unannounced like this, making me hot and shivery all over.

"This ain't about you and me," his pointed finger stabs back and forth between us, as if he needs to clarify who he's talking about, and his impatience visibly raises a notch. In fact, I'd go so far as to say there's a haze of anger in his eyes, and goddamnit, how can _he_ be annoyed with _me_? If anyone should be angry, I should! He was supposed to be my friend, my protector -_ yeah, whatever _- yet he barely noticed me, his mind was always on something, or should I say someone, else.

And what he doesn't seem to understand is that it has _everything_ to do with him and me. I don't care about anything else. I've even forgotten our audience, who continue to stare and exchange confused looks.

"So why send you?" I ask, feeling the Wolverine winding tightly at my questions, "Why not send Scott or Storm?"

"Storm?" Jen cuts in with an agitated voice, "Have I stepped into an alternative universe? What the bloody hell are you both talking about?"

A small part of me feels guilty that I've never disclosed my bizarre history to Jen, but I had my reasons and there's time to make up for that later...

"Wait a minute!"

That's Marcus's never-heard-before voice chipping in where it's not wanted. I mean, who is he, other than a background character that happens to be cute enough to be a member of Take That or the Backstreet Boys? He means nothing, right?

"I recognise those names," Marcus continues, looking to Jen, then to me, "Scott…Storm…Where do I know them from?" his latter sentence is muttered to himself and I'm grateful that everyone ignores the unimportant softly spoken boy-band member.

"Why?" I repeat my demand to Logan, "Why send you?"

He takes a deep breath before answering my question and if I didn't know better I'd guess there was a squirm of embarrassment in his words; "They knew the best chance of you agreeing to return is if I came for you."

Oh they did, did they? So that's how I'm perceived? Silly googly-eyed Rogue will follow the Wolverine to the ends of the earth like an obedient puppy-dog...

Anger pounces on me in a surging flash and it's only flared further by his unawareness of how foolish his revelation makes me feel.

He continues obliviously, "Jean said..."

"Fuck Jean!" I yell, cutting him off, my tone one of fury. Hearing little-miss-perfect's name coming from Logan's mouth is the final straw; I've had enough of this. Within minutes of him re-entering my life he manages to grind my heart through a mincing machine. Again.

His expression is one of shock, but I'm not sure if it's because of my venomous spite towards Jean or because of my cursing. I think it might be the latter, given I faced near-death on Liberty Island and not one swearword fell out of my mouth. How the hell I managed that I don't know, but either way, things have changed. Including the fact that I curse.

"Marie..." he starts again, his voice milder now, his hand reaching for mine, electrically charged sparks firing as our fingertips brush...

"And fuck you too!" I add, jerking my hand away from his, staggering backwards a step before spinning on my heel and marching out.

The atmosphere is so clotted it's making my breathing tight. I can't get to the exit quick enough and as the door swings open to the blast of freezing air, I take in a crisp, sharp lungful, making me feel dizzy.

I don't look back but I guess Logan tries to follow me because I hear Jen's voice, "Leave her alone Mister!" and she runs after me, linking my arm in hers and leaving everyone else to stare after us.

Jen immediately flags the taxi parked nearby and I hear Marcus's voice in our wake, the last sound before the heavy door swings shut, "I'm sure I know those names from somewhere..."


	3. An Anonymous Observer

Tears sting painfully in the corners of my eyes and I blink them back as I lean my head against the chilled glass of the car window. The rain drums down loudly onto the pane, drowning out the sound of my heart, which thunders with a mixture of anger and disbelief over the scene that has just taken place. The whole incident already seems a blur, a far-distant memory, although in reality it was only minutes ago. I crave to be in my own bed, the covers swaddling me heavily, losing myself in sleep to block out this evening.

Jen reaches across the seat to squeeze my hand tightly, "You okay sweetie?" her voice is gentle, comforting, and even without looking I know her eyes are filled with concern.

I don't answer; I just watch the rain through the window, bouncing down so hard it rebounds back up again, causing a light mist-haze on the road rolling out in front of us.

"Marie?"

I turn my head to face Jen and she offers me a weak smile before sympathetically asking, "Who was that guy?"

I turn back to the window, resting my forehead against the glass once more and muttering, "No one."

"Come on Marie, I've never seen you so angry before, so emotional. He's clearly _someone_ to you."

I let out a brief sarcastic laugh before turning to face her again, "He used to be, but it was a long time ago Jen. I was so young back then, so goddamn naive," my voice tapers off into a faded whisper and Jen squeezes my hand again.

We fall silent and for the next few minutes only the rapid swish of the windscreen wipers and the relentless rain can be heard. I want to sink into this seat, be gulped down by the car itself, anything to escape my troubled thoughts. Have you ever heard that saying about wishing the earth would swallow you? Well, that's how I feel right now.

"Marie," Jen starts, rather cautiously, "Did you and growly have a thing in the past?"

She stares at me with those wide blue eyes, waiting for an answer I don't want to give, but I know she won't let this drop.

"Well, it depends what you describe as a 'thing'" I answer cryptically.

"Let me put it this way Marie, have you and he ever fucked?"

Trust Jenny to lay it out so bluntly.

"No," I answer flatly, "Never."

"Hmmm," she says thoughtfully, inspecting her perfectly polished nails, "Then I've worked out the problem. Definitely. It's right there in front of me, clear as crystal. And it's taken me all of..." she twists her arm to look at her wrist watch, "...three seconds to work it out."

I raise my eyebrows sceptically, awaiting whatever conclusion her over-active imagination has come up with.

"You want to fuck each other," she states with certainty, "But for whatever reasons, you deny yourselves."

"Wh...What?" I manage to stammer out, "Where are you getting this from?"

"Well, let's begin with you Marie. I know you want him. Am I right?"

For a second I consider refuting her assumption, but Jen knows me, and hell, I've got nothing to lose.

"Am I really that obvious?" is my subdued response.

"You both are," she answers with that unwavering tone of certainty.

I can feel the creased look of puzzlement impressing on my face in response to her words.

"Girl," she continues, "I can read men like an open book, even mysterious guys like him. And let me tell you, the crazy-haired one wants you as much as you want him."

I start to protest but she cuts me off, her voice filling with notes of excitement, "Marie, the way he looked at you from across the room, his eyes following you constantly, not sticking strictly to eye-level. I could see his lust stirring, coiling around his body like a constricting snake."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"Also," she continues, "The way he glowered at piggy like he wanted to carve him up, recoiling as much as you did when he touched your face. Let me tell you, mr growly didn't like piggy's efforts one little bit."

I don't respond, I _can't _respond, instead I glance through the window, focusing on the neon signs that flash by, puncturing the darkness. Jen persists unaware of the emotions she's stirring up, "And when he walked over to you, the way his eyes darkened, how close he was to you... "

"Jen," I cut her off, spinning back to face her, "You don't know him and it isn't like that between us!"

She comes back just as sharply, "Goddamnit Marie, how can you _not_ see it?" She lets out a heavy exaggerated sigh, "And something tells me you could save a whole lot of time, effort and possible heartache if you just got yourself into the sack with him. No prolonged build up, no angsty scenes to deal with, just pure glorious smut. Amen to that!"

My inner 'English' voice pipes up unexpectedly, _"But where's the fun in that Rogue? Angst is what you revel in. You already know it's so much more satisfying when you've had to work hard for it."_

I shake my head, refusing to accept either opinion. He'll only ever see me as the lost little girl I once was and nothing more.

Jenny starts up again, but I can't take any more of this and I'm grateful I finally find my own voice...

"Jen!" emotion flares into my words, tears close to the surface, "You heard me ask him outright if he needed me. That was the hardest goddamn question I've ever asked anyone in my life!"

"And what was his response Marie?" Jen's voice rises in volume to match mine.

I hesitate, my mind searching to recall what he'd said. Why can't I remember?

Jen gives me only a moment to contemplate this before she declares, in the same manner a lawyer would give the winning closing speech to a jury, "He avoided answering."

A beat passes before she adds, "Didn't you register that Marie?"

No...I didn't register that.

For a long moment we listen to the steady patter of the rain. I can't deny that Jen's right about him avoiding my question. But maybe he didn't answer so he wouldn't hurt my feelings?

"What did he want anyway?" Jenny interrupts my miserable thoughts, "Other than to shag your brains out?" she adds with a grin.

I roll my eyes at her comment but her question jumps into life in my head, buzzing wildly like a trapped wasp in a jar. What in the hell did he want?

It's strange, quite simply ridiculous, but until this very moment, I never considered the meaning of the words he spoke, the information that made up the fuller picture. All I could comprehend was him towering over me; all I was concerned about was how he was making me feel and if those feelings were reciprocated.

With concentrated effort I zone out from the intimacy of the scene, just a few steps back from the memories of him being so close, trying to take in the bigger picture. His plea replays in my mind as if hearing it for the first time:

_"You need to go back…to the X-men...they need you."_

Reality strikes me like a padded fist to the chest. Holy fuck! What? Why? My heart starts thudding madly once again. What could they possibly need _me_ for? I am such a damn fool, I should have been asking what he meant by those words, rather than letting my emotions veil everything around me.

I groan to myself, annoyed at my own stupidity and stubbornness, and it takes one more swish of the windscreen wipers to work out what I have to do…

Leaning forward to the nondescript taxi-driver, my words tumble out frantically, "Turn this car around, we're going back!"

* * *

_The two young women erupt through the doors, bringing with them an icy gust that filters through the warm teem of the bar. People around give them faint, uninterested looks before they go about their business, barely raising an eyebrow. _

_An anonymous observer, if there were one, would describe one girl with bursting golden auburn curls and bright blue eyes, the other with intriguing white streaks of hair within tumbles of brunette waves, framing a beautiful pale face. _

_Both girl's eyes search wildly through the throng of tipsy drinkers, scanning the crowd in a haphazard pan-shot, before separating to cover more ground._

_The same observer, if he did indeed exist, would witness a young man with charming boyish features and hair that flopped repeatedly into his eyes join the curly-haired girl, his face flustered and eager..._

Marcus, visibly fretful, grabs Jenny's elbow gently but firmly, a yelp of surprise escaping from her as he pulls them towards a private corner. His strides are fast and long and Jenny struggles to keep up, her golden curls bouncing energetically with her quick steps.

"Are you alright Marcus?" she asks as he stops to face her, his hands falling on her shoulders, gripping hard and stilling them both.

He takes a deep breath before starting, his voice hushed so Jenny has to lean in to hear him, "Listen, I've worked out where I know those names from."

She stares up at him blankly, her nose wrinkling sweetly as she tries to make sense of what he's saying.

"Those names I couldn't place," impatience fills his words, desperate for her to understand, "The names that tall guy, Logan, was referring to. You remember don't you? Rogue, Scott, Storm?"

"Oh yeah, that," Jenny responds, still unsure where he's going with this, "Look, I'm sorry I left earlier without saying goodbye, I had to go after Marie. A friend in need and all that..."

"Never mind that," he says hastily, "Listen Jen, those names..." he trails off, unsure how to continue, uncertain whether to disclose his discovery. He takes a deep breath and tries again, "Those names, them people, they're..." he stops as if there's a blockage of some kind in his throat.

"Come on Marcus, spit it out for God's sake," Jenny's head twists to scan the bar before turning back to his wide stare, " I have to look after Marie, make sure she's okay. I've never seen her so upset."

"They're..." he holds his breath, "X-men."

His eyes don't blink; afraid he may miss her reaction.

"X-men?" Jenny repeats, her brow furrowing, "Aren't they something to do with mutants? Some sort of wacky group?"

His hand sweeps aside the hair that has flopped over his right eye and his voice is strained and excited, "Logan referred to Marie as 'Rogue', and Rogue is one of _them,_" He glances around and lowers his voice, although there's no one in earshot, "She's one of the mutants involved in the Liberty Island incident.

Silence settles over them for a moment as Jenny absorbs this information.

"Marcus," she eventually starts, "Have you lost your mind? Are you saying my best friend is a mutant?"

"Yes," excitement rises in his voice, "And that Logan guy, I think he's a mutant too and I'm certain he was involved in the Liberty Island event, along with those other people, Scott and Storm. I just need to check my files because that incident goes way back and my memory is a little rusty..."

Jen snorts, which rapidly turns into a giggle, curls bouncing excitedly around her heart-shaped face. Marcus stares at her, trying to work out what's so amusing.

"Nice one Marcus," she eventually manages between what is now full-blown laughter, her hand reaching for his arm to steady herself as she doubles over, "For a second there, I thought you were serious. I mean, you almost convinced me that a mutant hero walks around our office every day and even finds time to come out for a drink with us on a Friday evening!"

Marcus's expression turns into a deep frown, "I'm serious Jen. I know it seems completely bonkers, but..."

"Marie is no more an X-man mutant than you are the fifth member of Take That!" Jen exclaims in their secluded corner, "I mean what kind of X-man trudges into our mundane office five days a week?"

"Even Spiderman had to hold down a job," replies Marcus, as if that was evidence enough, as if it somehow sealed his case and didn't make the whole concept even more outlandish.

Jenny's eyebrows rise in an _'are you serious?'_ expression.

"Look, I don't know exactly how it works, do I?" he responds to the eyebrows, his shoulders rising in a shrug.

"I'm not convinced Marcus. In fact, I can't believe we're having this conversation. I mean, surely I'd know if my best friend of five years was a mutant?"

"Not necessarily," he answers, his face flushing slightly, "I mean, okay, I know there are some obvious ones out there, blue and hairy or whatever, but depending on the mutation...well...you can hide it."

There's something in his voice, cautiousness, which isn't missed on Jenny. Her suspicion rises further as Marcus quietly adds; "Some people hide it for years."

"Marcus," she says, holding his stare, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He hesitates and takes a deep breath to speak, but seeing piggy approaching he immediately closes his lips together tightly to stop the flow of words that have wanted to escape since he was fifteen years old.

Piggy plods to meet them, sweat patches visible under the arms of his greyed-out shirt, his rounded pot-belly hanging proudly over his trouser belt. His eyes narrow as he asks, "Do you know where Marie is?"

Jenny glances around the bar, "She's gone to search for the growly guy."

"She won't find him," responds piggy, and Jenny's not sure but there seems to be an air of smug enjoyment in his voice, "He took off just after you both left."

"Wait!" pipes up Marcus suddenly, cursing quietly under his breath as he searches in his pockets, "That guy handed me a note with the name of the motel he's staying at. He told me to pass it to Marie."

At his words, Jenny sees an alarming flash of cold fury in piggy's eyes, but then they are mild again, the transformation so swift and absolute that Jenny is not quite sure she even saw it.

Marcus finds the scrap of paper in the forth pocket he digs into and Jenny snatches it from him, shouting for her friend and racing towards her as she spots Marie near the door. They exchange a rush of words and Marie's expression changes to one of relief as she takes the note, recognising the sprawled uneven handwriting.

"Go get him girl!" says Jen with a bright sparkle in her blue eyes, just as Piggy sidles up to them.

He's out of breath, sweat beading on his forehead, despite not having exerted himself. He's very nearly panting as he asks, "Do you want me to drop you there Marie? My car's here and there's no sense in you spending money on a taxi."

"Are you sure?" Marie turns to face piggy with a grateful smile, "Thank you!"

Marie says her goodbyes to Marcus and Jenny before striding out into the cold night, closely following by piggy.

_To an anonymous observer, if there was one, there is nothing unusual about this scene. The young, slender brunette with wide innocent eyes and a pretty smile exits the bar, trailed by the rounded and rosy-faced older man. A faintly curious pair maybe, but nothing to cause more than a momentary glance. _

_However, had the anonymous observer witnessed the horrible grimace of rage that fleeted over the man's face as he followed the girl to his car, or the wicked glint of malice in his narrowed eyes as he opened the passenger door and she climbed in, well, it would have filled them with creeping dread. _

_But there was no observer, anonymous or otherwise. _


	4. I'm no damsel in distress

There have been some assumptions about what would happen in this next chapter, but I hope those people will be surprised by the direction I have taken this…

* * *

The downpour never ceases and the windscreen is a silvery blur of rain that the wipers can hardly keep up with. There's a strange atmosphere I can't understand, a grave silence that descended as soon as we pulled out of the car park. I glance across to piggy wondering if he can sense it too but his eyes are focused intensely on the road ahead, his expression stony and blank.

Rain drums incessantly as my eyes fall to the scrap of crumpled paper in my hand. Just seeing his scrawled handwriting offers inexplicable comfort, as if the slither of paper itself glows warmly in my palm.

_"Hang on to that feeling Rogue, absorb as much warmth from it as you can, because it's damn cold in this car and the temperature is set to drop."_

That's my inner 'English' voice - I should really give her a name - and for the first time ever, her words unsettle me. I can't interpret the meaning, although she's certainly right, its damn cold in this car.

All of a sudden I don't want to be here. There seems to be no concrete reason for the feeling, but it's a potent and deeply-rooted sense of intuition that I struggle to ignore.

I read Logan's words again, scribbled hastily with a blue biro: _The Queen Vic_.

I know that pub; I can see it in my mind's eye, standing proudly on the corner of a busy square, although I can't for the life of me remember what the name of that square is. I've never walked through its doors, I prefer the more modern bars myself, but if Logan's there, and if it serves alcohol, then it suits me just fine.

"Take the next right," I instruct piggy, recognising the dark road jutting off.

"You know this place we're heading to?" he asks, his voice slightly pitched with surprise as he sets the right indicator ticking.

"Yeah," I answer casually, "Doesn't everyone?"

There's no answer from piggy and I shift uneasily in my seat. Once again I sense a puzzling discomfort, a feeling that begins in the pit of my stomach. It scares me and I realise I'm terrified of my own baseline fear, if such a thing is possible. Where has this unbearable, claustrophobic feeling come from? It makes me want to scream, shout out to pull over so I can run away into the deserted darkness, so I can breath in fresh air instead of the clotted dank atmosphere that surrounds me and struggles to reach my lungs.

"_Get out of here,"_ the inner voice whispers eerily, causing my heart rate to double.

For reasons I can't explain, I go against my English advisor, remaining in the car and staring down at the scrap of paper, seeking its comfort. I just need to reach Logan...

"Left here!" I yell as we zip past the junction I'm waving wildly at. I'm not sure if it's my imagination but the car seems to speed up at my words, rather than slow down as I would expect.

"Hey!" I shout with a note of panic in my voice, a feeling of dread starting to develop, "You missed the turning, slow down!"

What happens next is so surreal and dreamlike that later I struggle to believe it actually took place. But right now, in this exact moment, it's closer and more real than anything I have ever experienced.

His head snaps to face me so sharply I hear his neck bones crack. His pinpoint eyes swivel to mine, growing larger and larger, blacker and blacker, until they're deep wells that I could fall into. Terror slips icily down my spine but I can't tear myself away from that hypnotic stare. Something in the far distance of my mind registers that the car is still hurtling along, but his pits-for-eyes are on me now, the road forgotten. I realise that the event my inner-voice had foreseen is here, already spinning out of control...

His stare swallows me and his words seem to come from the sunken hollows of his eyes, although I know that can't be possible. Most terrifying is his voice, unnaturally low, so deep it rumbles through me, engulfing me with paralysing horror. Each word is spoken slowly, every letter pronounced clearly as if to ensure the message is heard and understood:

"Our people are recruiting."

My muscles have turned to water, yet I somehow manage to recoil backwards, creating as much distance as possible within the limited space I have. His reaction is instant, abrupt, clutching my left wrist firmly, gripping so tightly I feel like my fragile bones might break. His skin is no longer sweaty but dry as sandpaper, his next words falling out of his mouth like dust:

"And we want _you_ Rogue."

It must be pure instinctive survival, an emergency reserve embedded in every cell from the beginning of time, that enables me to find the strength to ball my right hand into a tight fist and smack it into his face with a force and power I never realised I possessed.

My knuckles thump violently into his fleshy nose, the thin nasal bone shattering into a wet and sickeningly spongy pulp. His grip on my left wrist loosens immediately as a high pitch squeal ejects from his mouth, stretching on painfully until the noise fades into silence as his breath runs out. His eyes revert back to pinpoints and his head loiters backwards, both hands jerking up to his nose, blood instantly leaking thickly through his chunky fingers.

The shock of the impact causes his foot to leave the accelerator pedal, the vehicle slowing and drifting dangerously into the oncoming traffic lane, but I barely have the emotionally capacity for any more panic and thankfully there are no other cars on the road.

My trembling fingers grope for the door handle, flinging it open and jumping out into the road and as I make contact with the concrete the jarring shock travels up my legs and spine, all the way to my jaw. As I finding my balance, fear leaps hotly into my throat and I start to run without so much as a glimpse backwards, my feet pounding the hard surface beneath me, sprinting faster than I ever have before.

I'm numb to the cold rain soaking through my clothes and I barely notice the swollen moon staring down at me blankly. What must have been less than a two-minute diversion has taken me over a mile away from my destination, but running is helping to expel my hysteria. I don't allow myself to think, because the only way to keep back the mindless panic that simmers so close to the surface is _not_ to think.

By the time my destination comes into view, I've slowed to a walking pace and my breathing has caught up with me, although mentally I'm numb and not quite in touch with reality.

The Queen Victoria. It's an old pub, its red painted shell flaking away and its windows in dire need of a clean, if not replacing altogether, but I feel its homely allure drawing me in, its warm invitation being just what I need right now. That and a strong drink.

For the briefest moment I consider how I must look; my hair wild and windswept, my jeans and long green shirt clinging to me from the soaking rain, but the thought disintegrates as I swing open the heavy doors, immediately hit by the noisy buzz and friendly atmosphere, instantly feeling at ease.

If I attract a few curious glances I don't notice as I stride towards the bartender, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and a mysterious glint in his eyes.

"What'll it be sweetheart?"

"I'll have a white wine. Large."

The moment he finishes pouring I swipe up the glass, taking a long gulp, two gulps, wincing a little against the sharp fruitiness.

"You new around here?" he asks in a gravelly voice.

"Sort of," I answer, "I'm trying to find someone."

"Yeah? Well a lot of faces come and go here sweetheart. What does he look like?"

"Tall, leather jacket, unusually pointy hair?" His expression remains blank as I continue, "Drinks beer like its water, hairy face, no patience whatsoever…?"

"You looking for me kid?"

Relief washes over me at the sound of Logan's voice and I turn to take in the sight of him, feeling an overwhelming urge to run into his arms, to bury my face in his chest and hold onto him like my life depends on it – _maybe it does?_ – but I dig my feet hard into the wooden floorboards to stop myself, curling my toes within my heeled boots to ensure I don't give in to the impulse.

"No," I answer as calmly as I can muster, "I'm looking for someone else of that description," I add a weak smile but it's made up of pure relief rather than any form of humour, "You seen him around?"

He offers an easy grin in response but it quickly drops as he realises all is not well, maybe from my facial expression, or my scent or something. The truth is, I'm still deeply shaken and there's no hiding it from him.

"You okay?" he asks, taking a step towards me, his brow furrowing.

I guess it must be severe after-shock that causes my vision to fragment and my limbs to turn to liquid, or perhaps utter relief at Logan's presence and the safety he guarantees, but everything turns a swimming inky black and the floor rushes up towards me…

The next thing I'm aware of is Logan's strong arms around me, catching me just before I hit the floor, his heady scent and bulky arms encasing me, not helping to clear my dizziness. I must be out for less than a second before light filters back into my eyes and I try to find my balance, fighting off the waves of nausea that want to take me down.

"Hey, hey," he says soothingly, securing me to his sturdy frame as my eyes blink to regain their focus. I'm intensely aware of our closeness, our bodies flush so that not even an air molecule could fit between us and more than anything I want to remain right here, safe and protected.

But I'm afraid my feelings will simmer too close to the surface, nervous of the effect he still has on me after all these years, and on top of that, a typically stubborn thought springs to my mind: I'm no damsel-in-distress, fainting girlishly and waiting to be caught! I'm the Rogue and I'm tougher than that! I mean, I thwart piggy goddamnit! I didn't need any growly crazy-haired hunk to help me out of that situation, did I?

With that thought I push back away from him, creating distance between us, ignoring the subsequent pang of loss and the fleeting look that crosses his face that I can only interpret as hurt.

For a long moment an uncomfortable silence hangs between us and I can't think of a single word to say. He's studying me intensely and eventually, as the seconds grind on, he asks, "What the hell happened to you tonight Rogue?"

I glance towards the barman, the only person in hearing distance of us, but he's absorbed in quiet conversation with a petit blonde, showing no interest in either me or Logan.

"That guy, the one you saw me with earlier..."

"Your boyfriend?" Logan asks, an eyebrow cocked.

"No!" and before I can stop myself I add, "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Good," he answers, offering nothing else except that one firm word.

"Anyway," I continue, deciding I'll analyse that comment later, "He offered to drive me here and on the way, well, something awful and unbelievably strange happened," my voice tapers off, unsure if those words cover the extent of the horror I have experienced and uncertain how to begin to explain something I don't understand myself.

"Strange?" Logan prompts.

I take another mouthful of wine, noticing how the icy coldness of it magically turns into a warm heat in my stomach.

"I…I can't explain it,"

"Did he hurt you Marie?"

I can already see Logan's primary emotion – anger - rising. It's clear in the tensing of his muscles and the black flash in his eyes. It's the first sentiment he summons to deal with any event that is out of his control. I can see his battle to remain calm, his fury straining its leash, as he awaits my answer.

I know I have to handle this carefully otherwise he'll be out the door and on the hunt for piggy before I can stop him. And right now, although I can't understand why, I need him here with me.

"No, he didn't hurt me," another deep swallow of wine, "But he scared me."

I allow my mind to reflect back for the briefest moment, and that alone creates such a terror inside that it stifles me.

"I know piggy," I start up shakily, "He's creepy yes, but it was almost like he was taken over by someone…something…else. His eyes…his voice…it wasn't him. And what he said…"

I stop, finishing the sentence silently in my head; "_It chilled me to my bones."_

Logan's brow furrows deeper still and I remain silent, unsure if I can go on, gulping down the last of the wine and staring down at the empty glass.

His impatience rises – nothing new there then – and he steps towards me, his hands cupping my shoulders, his eyes intense on mine, "What did he say Marie?"

I swallow hard before I pluck up the courage to repeat the spine-chilling words:

"He said their people are recruiting," all the moisture has gone from my mouth as I struggle to keep my voice even, "And they want me."

Tears of panic prick at my eyes and I refuse to let them fall but Logan senses those tears, or maybe smells them or something, and he pulls me close, right back into the deep folds of his leather jacket, his arms wrapping around me to hold me close, allowing me to simply cry. It's exactly what I need and somehow he knows it.

And just for a minute, for the briefest sixty-seconds or so, I let go of my emotions and allow myself to be that damsel-in-distress.

A little time later – and I admit, it may be longer than a minute - my tears subside. There's no denying I've stirred something up in Logan, I can see it in his eyes as he hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his. I can see he's trying to remain calm for my sake, yet I know that what he really wants to do is revert back to that primary emotion.

"You want another drink?" he asks, "Because I sure as hell need one."

I nod gratefully and watch him signal to the barman as I sniffle back the last of my tears. Logan hands me a large glass of wine before taking a deep swig of beer and gazing down at me silently.

It's not what I see in his eyes that makes me realise he knows what all this means. It's what I _don't_ see. There's no sense of surprise…no confusion…

"What do you know Logan?" I ask carefully, unable to hide the uneasiness in my voice. "Has this got anything to do with the X-men wanting me back?"

His eyes flicker away from mine and he lets out a deep sigh.

"We need to talk Marie," he says, glancing around the bar, his gaze stopping on a darkened empty booth. Without another word he grasps my hand, leading me to the isolated seats, ignoring my look of amazement at his gesture, at our 'first contact'. I stare at his huge warm hand wrapping mine and I can't help but notice how perfectly it fits and how right it feels...

As we settle into the booth he keeps hold of my hand, skin-on-skin, squeezing it tightly and looking at me closely. What he says next is with a soothing voice, as if it would somehow take away the horror of it, yet his words alarm me as much as piggy's did:

"Marie, they're coming for you. And they're far closer than we realised."

* * *

I know it went a little dark there (the words type out beneath my fingertips and head off in their own direction with no consultation or prior warning to me!) but I promise to lighten it up again in the next chapter. :-)


	5. Let's Boogie

Its several notches lighter and a little bit frisky - yay!

dancing21 – I think you might be right. :-)

* * *

I reflect on the information I withdrew from Logan, tiny piece by tiny piece. It pained him to reveal all he knew but he had little choice given the situation is seeping dangerously into my life, starting to unravel out of control.

I can hardly believe it, it's like something out of a movie or comic book, but apparently a rebel mutant faction had come to Xavier's school searching specifically for me.

Logan was away from the mansion when it took place - a fact that clearly plays on his conscience - and this defiant gang had turned the place upside down before they finally accepted I wasn't there. Shockingly, they went on to torture a number of teachers and students alike - the details of which Logan refused to divulge - before they believed that no one knew of my whereabouts.

As it turns out, my mutation is an essential part of whatever fucked-up criminal 'we want to take over the world' plan they have. God, without sounding too hippy, why can't people just live in peace? And more importantly, why can't they just leave me the hell alone?

Xavier's been trying to tap into their psyche to figure out why my mutation is so fundamental to them, but either they have an amazing ability to deflect Xavier's telepathic powers, or their minds are so blacked-out with polluted evil that it's painful for Xavier to attempt to enter.

It seems the leader, let's call him the Black-Eyed-Boogieman, has the power to deeply hypnotise and once he has you under his spell, well, let's just say you might as well hand over any free-will you possess. More terrifying than that, his entire spirit and hypnotic capability can transport instantly into any willing participant's body. In theory, he could be anywhere, disguised as anyone.

"So that boss of yours," Logan had said, "What's his name again?"

"Piggy," I'd answered.

"Right," he'd replied with a roll of his eyes, "Well, it sounds to me like that hypnotising freak had shifted into piggy's body, and as he can only transport into those who give permission, this piggy character must somehow be involved."

I'd shuddered then, comprehending the danger I faced earlier in the car.

"And that's all we know," Logan had finalised, his eyes on mine, assessing my reaction.

Right at that moment I felt an overwhelming urge to be home, as if my little apartment would offer some sort of normality, a sanctuary, a place of safety. Logan immediately refused; worried they may know where I live, branding it a foolish move. But I reminded him, in my usual stubborn manner, that he can't tell me what to do and once he recognised I was not backing down, he'd responded in his typical no-nonsense way: "Fine. Get on the bike."

And so here we are in my little apartment, Logan having to duck his head to fit through the door and almost filling the place. I can't tell you how surreal it is to see the Wolverine here, in my hallway, in my 'normal' world.

I think it takes him a total of four seconds to stroll around and take in my entire home; the modest front room with its over-sized sofa and cluttering of knick-knacks on every surface, the kitchen, which I would describe as 'petite', although Jen describes it as 'a cupboard', the bedroom, crammed wall-to-wall with a double bed and a ridiculously huge wardrobe, and the tiny brightly-painted bathroom.

"Cosy," he comments.

And that's all he says, until reverting back to drilling his point, the one he won't give up, the one I haven't yet agreed to, despite this now being the fourth time he's mentioned it:

"Marie, you have to get the hell away from here."

I ignore him and I can feel his eyes following me, piercing into the back of my head as I pad to the kitchen to fill a jug with cold water, pouring it into the pot that houses my cactus.

"Marie…" he starts again, his shortening patience audible in his voice.

"I heard you Logan," I mutter, my back still to him.

With that, he strides towards me, spinning me round to face him and snatching the jug from my hand, causing the water to slosh out over the side and onto the floor. I can see impatience blazing in his eyes, his action abrupt enough to gain my full attention.

"All this," he sweeps his hand in a general gesture to indicate my apartment, or possibly my whole life, "Is no more. And this," he stabs a pointed finger towards the plant, "Might as well be dead."

My eyes widen at his harsh words. That cactus was a gift from Jen for my birthday three years ago and I've proudly nurtured that hairy plant.

"You have to face reality and let go of this Marie," he continues, "You have no choice but to leave it behind, because if you don't, they'll catch up with you and Christ only knows what they'll do," he pauses for a moment, "And I ain't gonna' let it happen."

"Logan," I start, my voice rising as I snatch the jug back, "This isn't some fantasy comic-book world we're living in. I have a job, I have goddamn bills to pay, and I have Freddie to take care of."

"Freddie?"

"My goldfish," I point to the round glass bowl on the sideboard, complete with brightly coloured gravel and an ornamental bridge that goes ignored by my beloved fish. Not once has he swum under it. Freddie is swimming gleefully around in circles, oblivious to any sense of impending doom. I throw some fish flakes in and he immediately surfaces to gobble them.

"I named him after Andrew 'Freddie' Flintoff," I comment absently, as if that has anything to do with anything.

"The cricket player?" Logan responds with a raised eyebrow, "Since when did you like cricket?"

"Logan," I start, turning to face him, one hand on my hip, "There's a great deal you don't know about me. It's been five years and a lot can change in that time."

"I can see that," he comments under his breath, his eyes fleeting down my body making me flush hotly.

I take a deep breath and decide to try a different tact, looking to him with pleading in my eyes and even more so in my voice, "Let me stay here tonight Logan. Let me sleep on it so I can come to terms with this situation, because you're asking me to ditch my whole life and it's all happening so damn fast."

His reply comes with a deep sigh, reluctantly giving in to my request, "We can stay here tonight, but we get the hell away first thing in the morning."

"_We _can stay here tonight?" I ask, my eyebrows rising.

"I ain't leaving you alone Marie. The chances are they know where you live and could show up in the middle of the night, break into this place…"

A ripple of fear slips down my spine and I guess he must sense it as he stops mid-sentence, his voice softening as he takes a step towards me, "Marie, I promise I won't let them get anywhere near you. And in the morning, you can pack some essentials and that damn fish of yours and we can get away from here. I draw the line at the plant."

I reluctantly accept his words, although I still can't believe this is happening. Wasn't it just a normal Friday evening only a few hours ago? Weren't we having the usual after-work drinks and celebrating that we'd made it through another laborious week? When did my life go from that to being on the run with the Wolverine and Freddie, chased by some freaky hypnotic group that are intent on capturing me for God only knows what?

"Darlin'," Logan's voice snaps me out of my worried daze, "I promised I'd take care of you and I will."

His voice is low, he's standing skin-touchingly close and suddenly I'm intensely aware that it's just the two of us.

Deep silence fills the room as the moment stretches out and the atmosphere crackles tensely. I can no longer hold his gaze, breaking away and glancing around the room trying to find something, anything, to say that won't make it obvious that I'm melting under the heat of his stare.

My eyes fall to the worn but comfortable settee and I say the first thing that comes into my mind, "If you insist on staying, you can sleep on the sofa," I point to it, as if he didn't know where it was, as if it isn't the biggest damn object in the room.

"Right," he answers, his eyes still on mine, and if I'm not mistaken there's a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, causing me to blush.

"Right," I state firmly, working hard to keep my voice steady, "It's late and I'm going to take a shower, so I'll say goodnight," I try to stride away but he grasps hold of my arm, stopping me from leaving his side, his dark eyes only inches from mine.

"If you get scared in the middle of the night darlin'," his eyes glint daringly, "I'll be right here." As I absorb his words, my mind racing for their meaning, he tilts his head closer still, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "And I know a way to take your mind off all your fears."

"_He's flirting with you Rogue,"_ my inner English voice pipes up, pointing out the obvious, "_And it isn't a teasing I-know-you-have-a-crush-on-me-but-you're-way-too-young flirting, it's the real grown-up deal. You're not that little girl anymore Rogue, and he's certainly noticed."_

"I thought you said this wasn't about you and me Logan?" I challenge, "Back at the bar, in front of my friends, you made that perfectly clear."

"I lied," he states with a devilish grin.

"Well, just for the record, I don't scare all that easily," I manage to maintain a steady smile, rather proud of my response given I want to liquefy into a puddle "But if the big bad Wolverine should happen to get a little scared in the night," I indicate across the hallway towards my bedroom, the door standing ajar to reveal my neatly-made bed scattered with brightly coloured cushions, "Then I'm just through there."

"Well," he grins down at me, "You may be surprised at how easily the big bad Wolverine scares," and with that, he lets go of my arm, his dark eyes following me out of the room.

Half an hour later, I've showered, dried my hair and I'm lying in bed with Logan's lustful gaze and heat-filled words replaying in my mind. I can't stop tossing and turning, the sheets tangling themselves around me tighter and tighter, my whole body aching with unfulfilled longing.

I could take seven strides, maybe eight, and I'd be right there by that sofa. If I made them long strides, I could probably do it in six. How many seconds would that take? Four? With a quick pace, maybe three. Long strides and a quick pace and three seconds from now I could be in his arms. I count to three, deliberately slowly, but I find myself still here, lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to that old sofa creak as Logan twists and turns as restlessly as I do.

I'm in some kind of unknown grave danger, to such a degree that the X-men have been sent to protect me, to the extent that Logan didn't even want me to stay in my own home tonight. Yes, the freaky-eyed boogieman is coming, closing in fast, and all I can think about is Logan, lying half-naked on my sofa, only a few strides away. What the hell is wrong with me?

"_This might be your only chance," _my inner English voice starts up, not helping the situation, "_Throw caution to the wind Rogue and go get your man!"_

Isn't that voice always right?

My heart starts to race at what I'm about to do as I carefully untangle myself from the bed sheets, sitting up slowly and catching my reflection in the mirror to see my hair messy and tousled. I decide I kinda' like it that way.

Dangling my legs over the side of the bed I take a deep breath, stand up and pad across the soft carpet. I'm two strides closer to him when doubts suddenly rise: What if I have misinterpreted his signal? What if he was only teasing, a friendly flirtation, like he always used to?

But those thoughts are quickly quashed by my English friend; _"Go for it Rogue, Jen was right, he wants you as much as you want him."_

Oh God, am I really going to do this?

Even as I ask myself that question I'm turning the bedroom door handle soundlessly, swallowing down a rush of nerves mixed with excitement.

I swing the door open causing light to pour into the bare corridor and at exactly the same moment the lounge door opens to reveal Logan, freezing just as I do, each realising we had the same intention.

Time stands still as we stare at each other and oh god, he is shirtless. Maybe this is a dream? Maybe I'm still tangled up in those sheets and counting to three over and over, because surely this can't be happening?

But I grasp how real this is when he closes any distance between us, when I can not only see his chest heaving, but I can feel it because he's pressed flush to me, and the next thing I know he is kissing me, right there in the cold hallway, a sense of urgency rising fast, his hands everywhere, making me hot, making me breathless, making me lose myself...

Suddenly and all too soon he breaks away and a rush of confusion hits me like a blast of icy air through a hazy summer picnic, scattering all the nibbles and knocking over the glasses of champagne.

"Logan," I whisper in a blurry tone, surprised at my own husky voice and how that one word exposes my ardent lust.

"Shhhh," he whispers, holding me still, his body tensing as he sniffs the air. Seeing his hackles rise snaps me out of the warm fuzziness of the dream-world, the one where I, the Rogue, finally makes love to the Wolverine, and back into cold reality.

_Knock knock_

That solid rap at the front door causes dread to rise up inside me like a black column. I twist my head to see the digital clock blinking from the dark corner of the bedroom: It flashes in blood-red square numbers, as solid as the wall I'm pressed into by the mighty weight of the Wolverine: It reads 01:16.

Who would come knocking at quarter-past-one in the morning?

_Knock knock _

If Rogue could read Logan's mind she'd know that what he smells is evil and putrid. She'd also know that there was more than one body behind the door. In fact, another sniff and he distinguishes five individual rancid scents.

If Rogue could read Logan's mind she'd know he was assessing the situation; Five of them. Two of us. Sonofabitch.

The door-handle twists and rattles as someone – _something?_ – tries to open the locked door and Rogue's eyes dart fearfully to Logan's. His deeply troubled face stares back at her.

No, she can't read his mind, but she can interpret the message reflected in those eyes. It says the same as her instinct, it screams the same as the English inner voice, and isn't that voice always right?

Fear clasps its cold hands tightly around her heart.

The boogieman has come to play.


	6. Definition of a Superhero

**Superhero: noun. **

A superhero is a character (or part of a group of characters) possessing trait(s) not attainable through even extraordinary efforts by everyday human-beings.

In addition to crime fighting, virtually all superhero types battle against mortal enemies, who may also have superhuman abilities. Most suffer a high degree of angst and are condemned to live secretive lives.

The superhero is not perfect; he is burdened with greater troubles than ours, and is time and again defeated by the evil he sets himself against. Yet it is because of this, not in spite of it, that he is truly a hero; because he does not surrender.

In contemporary culture, this definition can be stretched or altered to include a variety of people also considered modern-day superheroes.

...................................................................................................................................................................................

_Knock knock_

My eyes drop from Logan's and I groan inside as they land on his imposingly bulky chest. He was about to make love to me before this interruption, damnit! Why do I always have such incredibly bad luck? Who the hell is looking down on me with such contempt?

I wonder, would we have done it right here in the hallway, up against the wall I'm presently flattened into by the towering Wolverine? Or maybe on the floor beneath us, the wooden boards creaking and groaning under our relentless thrusts?

Am I really thinking about sex right now?

Maybe we would have progressed to the bedroom, naked limbs tangling amongst the sheets, our mingled scents fusing into the bed covers? Perhaps all those locations would have been sampled at some point during the course of the night? I shiver deliciously at the thought…

I will never forgive this goddamn boogieman. He can threaten my life, steal my mutation or take over the world with his creepy hypnotic power if that's what he wants.

But to abruptly end my chance to make love to the Wolverine…well…that freaky-eyed-monster has a lot to answer for and he has the wrath of the Rogue to face!

"Marie," Logan's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, his face solemn and his eyes grave, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

My response is a natural reflex, an instinctive answer requiring no conscious thought whatsoever. It's inexplicable, but from the moment I laid eyes on Logan I've always felt that unwavering trust in him, which accounts for why I hid in his trailer at the fragile age of sixteen.

"Then do something for me darlin'," his voice is full of earnest, his fingers reaching out to tuck a loose strand of white hair behind my ear and he's looking at me in a way that makes me loathe the Boogieman more than I thought possible, "You're not gonna' like it, but do it for me Marie, please."

I think I nod in response, but either way I don't voice an answer as I await his proposition.

"You gotta' get out of here."

I look at him blankly. Isn't that obvious?

"I know," I respond, "You, me, Freddie and the hairy cactus. We're out of here."

"Not me."

_What?_

"And not the fish or the plant."

_What the fuck?_

"Listen, darlin', I can buy you some time so you can escape out the back door. I'll hold the bad guys back…"

_Guys? Plural?_

"There's more than one out there?" my words are spoken hastily, filled with alarm, "How many?"

He doesn't answer, his troubled eyes only shifting from mine to the door then back to me again.

"How many Logan?" I demand again, my face now as grave as his.

"Five," he eventually mutters distortedly, in the hope I don't comprehend. But I hear him loud and clear.

"Five? What the hell? There's no way I'm leaving you…"

"Marie!" he seizes my shoulders, dipping his head so his darkened eyes are only inches from mine, "It's you they want and they're right behind that door. Your only chance of escape is if you leave right now."

"But...what about you?" my voice wobbles, sounding confused and childlike.

"They have no interest in me. As soon as they realise you've gone, they won't waste any more time here. I'll be okay."

There's something in his voice –_ a hint of doubt?_ – that leaves me unconvinced by his theory, but before I can question him, the door handle rattles hard, shaking the entire frame, causing my words to lodge in my throat.

"Marie," Logan's voice has an increased sense of urgency, "Do you know how to ride a motorbike?"

"Of course," I answer, sweeping my hand casually through the air as if it's a skill everyone possesses.

He looks at me with surprise, "You do?"

"As I said before Logan, a lot can change in five years."

He digs into his jeans pocket and hands me his Harley keys, folding them into my hand in the same way he did with those tags years ago. My fingers spring open immediately and I look down at those keys before my eyes sweep up to his, wide and as innocent as I can make them.

"I've never ridden one as big as yours."

Am I seriously dropping innuendos at a time like this? What the hell is wrong with me?

"Darlin'," he grins, clearly appreciating my not-so-subtle presumption, "I have no doubt about that, but you'll soon get used to it."

I glance to my left through the lounge doorway, watching Freddie for a moment as he swims merrily round and round. Logan's grin drops as he follows my saddened gaze.

"I'll take care of the damn fish Rogue, just go! Head somewhere safe, somewhere they won't find you. And Marie," he hooks a finger under my chin to tilt my eyes to his, speaking with unflinching determination, "Don't come back here. No matter what."

The door rattles again, so aggressively it seems the frame itself will fracture and Logan instantly rotates to flatten his back against it in an attempt to block anyone's entrance, at the same time pushing me firmly away from him and towards the kitchen that leads to the back door.

"Logan…"

I step back towards him but he only responds with hissing words, trying to keep his voice low so as not to be heard by the strangers that are merely feet away, yet struggling to hold down his volume due to the urgency of his words.

"Get out of here! Now! It's the only way to ensure your survival!"

"And what about your survival Logan?" the words come out in a whimper, tears pricking my eyes at the harshness of the situation we're faced with.

"If you trust me Marie, then you'll leave right now."

God damn, how can he pull that line on me?

A violent thud slams into the door from the other side causing a visible judder through Logan. He spreads his arms to connect with the walls either side of him, securing his stance as a blockade.

"Go!" he says one more time, arrant determination in that single command.

"_You have to do as he asks Rogue,"_ that's the English inner voice, the one that's always right, _"Get out now; you can't delay this any longer."_

My heart breaks as I turn away, forcing one foot in front of the other, making myself do what Logan, my instinct and my inner voice are telling me. It's like an out-of-body experience, looking down on myself as I make my way to the door. I don't look back.

I can't remember clambering on the bike, firing it up or driving through the darkened streets. My emotions have switched off and I'm completely numb. Without conscious thought, I find myself outside Jen's house, which I suppose is as safe a place as any, and it's only then that I feel the chill of the night air whipping through my thin pyjama bottoms and vest top, biting at my exposed skin. I can't recall crying but my cheeks are wet with tears for Logan, fearful of what he is facing right now for my sake.

And I can't shake the sense of doom.

With loud frantic knocks I manage to rouse Jenny from sleep, her blurry half-closed eyes snapping into alarm-filled saucers at the sight of me stood on her doorstep at this hour.

"Jesus Chris Marie, what's happened?" she demands, ushering me through the door and into her darkened front room, flooding it with warm light as I crumble into her plump sofa.

I can't answer, instead I collapse into her arms and sob for an eternity. At some point, after much soothing, she leaves the room, returning with two steaming mugs of tea and eventually, through hitched breaths, I manage to speak, "I should never have left him."

"Left who?" her bright blue eyes are filled with puzzlement.

"It's such a long and complicated story Jen; I don't even know where to begin."

"Take your time sweetie," she answers softly, sitting close and blowing across the lip of her mug in an attempt to cool the contents down.

I take a long sip of hot sweet tea and decide, for the time being at least, to give Jen the shortened version of events. She still doesn't know about my past or my mutation and I'm too emotionally drained to tackle that right now.

"Some freaky guys came to my apartment tonight looking for me."

"Freaky guys?" her eyes widen with concern, "What? Why?"

"I don't fully understand it Jen, all I know is that they meant trouble. Logan insisted that I escape out the back door so he could tackle them."

"Firstly," she starts, "What was that growly guy doing at your apartment in the middle of the night Marie?" She says this with a wiggle of her eyebrows and a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, but doesn't wait for an answer having already come to her own conclusion, "And secondly, that proves I was right about him. He must really have it bad for you."

I look at her in disbelief, my tea halting midway between the coffee table and my mouth. I've just disclosed the fact that I'm being stalked by the boogieman and his freaky-friends and all she can think about is my love-life, which, apart from the briefest of fumbles this evening, is non-existent.

"Marie, he put himself in the face of danger to ensure your safety," Jen's voice is an excited squeal, "It's like having your own personal superhero taking care of you, Superman or Iron Man, only I think we can agree that mr growly is far sexier than either of them."

Jen rambles on and I don't have the energy to stop her...

"In fact, I can't think of a superhero sexier than your man, although if Jack Bauer counted, he'd be a close second. Do you think Jack Bauer could be classed as a superhero Marie or do we have to stick strictly to the comic-book world? I mean, he's repeatedly proven he'd give his life to save others and his stamina is beyond any human I know of. What is the definition of a superhero anyway? What criteria do they have to meet?"

"Jen," I say with a deep tiresome sigh, wondering if my friend has lost her mind, "This is serious."

"I know," she answers, "Its crucially important."

I nod in agreement, momentarily believing she's referring to Logan and the severity of his current situation, until she starts up again:

"Do you think Doctor Who meets the criteria of a superhero? He's saved the human race countless times and the new Doctor is hot, in an unusual kinda' way..."

"Jen," I interrupt, unable to take any more of her pointless zany chatter, "I don't give a damn. All I care about is Logan."

"Well," she answers, slightly deflated at my dismissal of her superhero dilemma, but letting it pass, looking at me over the rim of her mug, "Why don't you just give Logan a call? You have his number, right?"

"He doesn't own a mobile phone."

"What?" She slams her mug down as if in protest, "What sort of superhero doesn't own a mobile phone? It's the most basic of gadgets!"

"Someone who was around before Alexander Bell invented the telephone," I mutter under my breath, but Jen doesn't pick up on my mumblings, only seeing the tears welling up in my eyes once again.

"Hey," Jen says soothingly, reaching out to squeeze my hand, "He'll be okay sweetie, I just know it."

"How can you know?" I challenge, tears flooding down my cheeks, "He was outnumbered five-to-one!"

"Marie," Jen's tone is unusually hesitant, "Doesn't your man have some sort of…healing power or something?"

My heart rate quickens. How the hell does she know about that? I say nothing and I avoid her gaze, having no idea what my face reads right now.

"Listen," she gives my hand another squeeze, "Marcus worked out who he is, and who _you_ are. We know you're mutants, we know you were part of that X-team or whatever you're called, the ones involved in the Liberty Island incident."

I can hardly breathe with the shock of Jen's revelation, but she manages to ease my rising panic, giving me a warm smile and leaning across to put her arm around me, signifying without words that she accepts my background, that she forgives me for not sharing the secrets of my past. And I love her for it.

I offer her a weak smile, "I have so much to tell you Jen, but now is not the time." She nods in understanding as I continue, "I think Logan might be in trouble. I have to go back to my apartment."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks, pulling away from me, uncertainty shadowing her blue eyes, "What if they're still there, those freaky guys?"

"Jen, I can't sit here all night wondering what's happened to him. The brutal truth is he's either fought them off by now or…"

_Or what? _

I can't even allow myself to think of the alternative outcome.

"In that case, I'm coming with you," Jen announces, disappearing to change, reappearing with a spare pair of jeans and a jumper for me. The moment I'm ready we set off out of the door, leaving our half-drunk mugs of tea to go cold.

Jen clambers on the bike behind me and my mind races as we make our way back across town. I try to comfort myself with the thought that those freaky-eyed monsters can't be that smart. After all, they went searching for me in a school I've not lived at for years and they didn't even think to cover the back door tonight. Surely they couldn't win over my Wolverine? Right?

Stopping two streets away from our destination to ensure the bike doesn't alert anyone to our presence, we walk the rest of the way in silence. The wind has picked up, whining along the road and as we approach the gravelly front path lined with over-grown rose bushes I can already see the front door swinging half off its hinges where it's been brutally forced open, resembling a crooked tombstone.

"_He told you not to come back here Rogue." _

That's my English inner voice, which I choose to ignore, along with my gnawing instinct that tells me I do not want to see what's beyond that gaping door.

"_He told you not to come back here Rogue, no matter what…"_

"Shut up!" I hiss into the night air.

"I didn't say anything," whispers Jen, and I decide not to correct her assumption that I'm talking to her. It's probably best she doesn't know I hear voices in my head.

An icy chill weaves its way up my spine as I step through the door and into the waiting stillness. As I fumble for the light switch – _who was courteous enough to switch off the lights when they left?_ – a deathly quiet impresses itself, broken only when I take a timid step forward and glass crunches beneath my feet.

Oh god, I don't want to turn the light on, I don't want to see what that broken glass indicates, I only want to get the hell away from here…

"Marie?" Jen whispers hesitantly, stepping into the hallway behind me and probably wondering why I'm staring into nothing but utter darkness.

"_Please be okay Logan, please be okay."_

I say the words silently in my head and I'm not sure who or what I'm pleading to, other than the black air that surrounds me.

The rumble of a passing car throws its headlights across the walls and ceilings but it gives no clue of Logan's wellbeing and I still can't find the courage to flick the switch. Surely the unseen reality that surrounds me can't be any worse than my torturing imagination?

Without warning, unable to brace myself, Jen hits the switch and the hallway lights up. I hear a sharp intake of breath but I'm not sure whether that comes from me or Jenny as we look around with dull horror.

The whole place is destroyed, gutted beyond recognition, shattered hints of my belongings lay everywhere, my whole life torn up around me.

From behind I hear Jen's voice, "Jesus, there's either been one hell of a party here, or one hell of a fight!"

"Something tells me it's the latter," I murmur, slowly turning on the spot, seeing every room from my position in the hallway, a leisurely pan shot of hell.

My horror heightens when I notice blood – _whose blood?_ – amongst the chaos, random splats soaking into the carpet, the sight causing my dread to intensify.

A strangled sob escapes my throat as I catch sight of the fish bowl, smashed into shards along with everything else. Oh god, not Freddie…

My beloved cactus is there too; capsized onto its side, soil spilling out across the carpet. Does that hairy plant symbolise something? I refuse to let my mind wander down that dark path...

Slowly, dejectedly, I pick up the cactus, scooping up a handful of soil to pack back into its bed, and as I do so, tears spill silently down my face. It feels as if I'm saying goodbye. I'm still here and already gone. Jen places an arm around me, softly whispering, "Sweetie, let's get out of here."

I trudge slowly behind her, hairy plant in hand and my mind numb apart from one thought:

_Logan, where are you?_

_................................................................................................................................................................................................_

Please don't mourn Freddie. With my bonkers mind, he might just survive this.

Oh, and that goes for Wolvie too, if anyone's interested in that character? :-)


	7. An Appointment with the Past

After carefully packing all I have left in the world, which amounts to little more than a hairy plant and a few essentials donated by Jen, I find myself hurtling along on Logan's Harley, eyes impatiently seeking the signs for Westchester County.

The journey is a blur, the changing scenery going unnoticed, the creeping dawn and steadily shortening shadows barely reaching my consciousness. I stop for petrol when necessary and other than that I travel on adrenaline alone. I have an appointment with the past and I can't miss it.

A feeling of dread for Logan grows with every passing mile and I listen for some reassurance from my inner voice, the one that seems to have a sixth-sense, but she remains deathly quiet.

My decision to leave was spontaneous because the truth is, I have no other choice; I must return to the institute. And not because my home is a wreck and everything I own is in shattered pieces. And not because I might as well wave goodbye to my job, given my boss is part of the boogieman-fan-club and I smashed his nose to a pulp last night.

No, it's because Xavier can locate Logan through Cerebro and that is all that drives me forward: I have to find the Wolverine and ensure his safety.

So, with the decision made in less than half a second, I'd hugged Jen goodbye, insisting once again that no, she can't come with me, and yes, I'll call her if I need anything. I quickly scribble down the address of the school, handing it over and making her promise to use it only in case of an emergency, swearing her to secrecy.

"If you hear from Logan, call me," were my parting words, along with another tight hug.

I gunned the Harley into life without a moment's hesitation or a glance back. I know it's what I have to do and even my inner voice doesn't argue with me on that point.

It's only now, as I reach the familiar road leading up to the institute, that the pangs of apprehension begin.

Oh god, I ran away from this school five years ago without so much as a note to say goodbye. And now I'm going to casually stroll back in and approach my old colleagues for assistance when I haven't had the courtesy to pick up the phone or drop them an e-mail in all that time. I despise my own rudeness when I think about it, because let's face it, all they ever offered me was a sanctuary and unlimited kindness.

Maybe I should have called, let them know I was planning to pay a visit? I suppose that would have been good manners at the very least. Or maybe that's just what we X-men do; charge in and out of each other's lives without forewarning.

If seeing Logan stooping through the front door of my apartment was a surreal sight, it doesn't compare to approaching the winding driveway of the school after five prolonged years of absence. I'd forgotten how huge this place was, the sprawling building somewhat daunting, despite the sun reflecting warmly off its windows and the delicate ripples of laughter from the students scattered across the lawn.

I avoid any eye contact, hoping that no one recognises me. I don't want to become re-acquainted with anyone; I'm not here to make friends. I have a strict agenda; speak to Xavier, locate Logan, gain the reassurance that he is okay and then…

_And then what? _

I refuse to consider this any further and my inner voice stays surprisingly silent on the matter.

The imposing entrance door is propped open as if to draw me in and as I climb the steps towards it, I feel like I'm stepping back in time. I'm dwarfed by the grandeur of the hallway, in such contrast to my tiny home. I don't know what makes up the instantly recognisable smell that hangs in the air, but that, along with the unchanged decor, stirs up an unexpected sense of nostalgia.

I hear the hum of Xavier's wheelchair before I see him gliding towards me with a kind smile, his pleasant, open face greeting me warmly.

"It's good to see you Rogue."

Before I can respond, a gaggle of inquisitive students rush by, slowing down briefly to smile at the Professor and glance at me curiously. It's surprising to recognise that the past I have walked into is no less alive than the present.

"We need to talk," Xavier says with deliberate understatement, suggesting we head to the privacy of his office. I stroll by his side as he makes easy chitchat, asking me about this and that, filling the short distance to his office with small-talk that I barely engage in.

As we enter his office I'm greeted by Jean and Scott, their intense gazes remaining on me long after their polite words of welcome. Why are they here and why do I feel outnumbered? The atmosphere is charged and no one knows what to say, each of us shifting uncomfortably.

If it were up to me, Xavier would be wheeling his way towards Cerebro right now. In fact, I'm considering strolling wordlessly around to the back of his chair and pushing him there myself...

"I've already tried to locate Logan using Cerebro," Xavier comments.

_Oh god, he heard my thoughts, didn't he?_

"And I haven't been able to trace him."

His words cause my vision to distort and I reach out to the nearest solid object - a bookshelf - in order to steady myself, the room suddenly explosively hot.

"What does that mean?" I demand, struggling to keep my balance, looking from Xavier, to Jean, to Scott, then back to Xavier again with barely concealed panic, "Is he...?"

_Dead? _

Is that the word I can't bring myself to say?

Xavier glides a little closer and reaches for my hand but I snatch it away, staggering backwards a step and barely managing to maintain my balance.

"Just tell me!" I yell, trying to control myself and failing, swaying on my feet as panic claws at my heart. My imagination is in overdrive, fearing the worst.

He answers softly, his eyes brimming with sympathy, "There could be a number of reasons why Cerebro can't locate him."

"Like what?" I demand sharply, almost hysterically, but as Xavier begins to reel off the scientific jargon-filled explanations I tune out, unable to comprehend this latest revelation. I'm desperate for some hope that Logan is still alive and I realise now it's the one reassurance Xavier can't give me.

I'm snapped back to the present moment by nothing but grave silence filling the room, all eyes staring at me expectedly. Did someone ask me a question?

"W…what?" I stammer, confused and still lost in my own fears.

"Rogue," Xavier repeats patiently, "Is there anything you can remember, any facts or details that might lead to Logan's whereabouts?"

I can't think straight. My mind races but all I see is the ruined remnants of my apartment and the blood splatters that seem to have extended, forming ever-spreading blackened pools, the gore increasing each time the image runs through my mind.

Jean steps closer to me, joining Xavier's side. Why does it feel like they're closing in on me?

"Perhaps I could read your mind Rogue?" she suggests softly.

My eyes narrow, instantly distrustful.

"I could pick up some clues," her voice is soothing, "Maybe I'll see something that will help."

I back away but she steps towards me, maintaining her proximity.

"I won't delve into your personal thoughts Rogue," she adds with a tilt of her head and a patronising hint in her words, as if she's talking to a twelve-year-old, "I only need the facts from the last few days. It may just unearth the information we need to find Logan."

I'm not comfortable with this. In fact I'd go as far as to say I'm extremely apprehensive, but if it will help Logan...

I nod blankly, the tiniest and most uncertain of movements, and her hands waste no time in lifting to hover either side of my head, her eyes peering into my face in a concentrated way that unease's me, before her eyelids slowly close.

It's the most unusual sensation as she enters my head and wanders the corridors of my mind. It's not unpleasant and certainly not painful, just odd, like tiny probing fingers feeling their way through the delicate capillaries that weave inside my brain. I can sense where she ventures, see the scenes she observes. Her point of view is like I'd imagine a spider's would be, silent behind its web in a secret corner, its cluster of beady eyes looking on...

I estimate she's in my head for a total of three seconds before she sees _that _scene, and the moment I realise, I take a purposeful step backwards, instantly severing her connection with my mind. _That_ is one private incident I refuse to share; it's too precious to me, pure and untainted by anyone else's opinion.

She draws her hands back with a scalded hiss, her eyes springing open and I immediately realise I was too late, she saw the whole brief, yet intense, exchange.

Her next words are spoken in a pitched voice, almost accusingly, "You and Logan?"

Yes, she observed the pent-up scene in my cold hallway. I guess seeing it from an outsider's point-of-view – _like a spider in the corner_ - only accentuates the intimacy of the moment; his dominating frame pressing me flush to the wall, frenzied kissing exposing our yearnings, hands roaming as he growls my name...

I want to yell to her that what went on between me and Logan is none of her damn business, but the black envy that sparks dangerously in her eyes causes the words to stick thickly in my throat.

"He's too old for you," Jean's voice is restrained and tight, her eyes glittering with bitterness.

"You said you wouldn't go anywhere personal," I finally manage through gritted teeth, my peripheral vision picking up an uneasy glance between Scott and Xavier.

"Well," says Scott lightly, attempting to break the tension, "I guess that explains why Logan was so willing to track you down Rogue, I mean, I've never seen him so keen on a mission. What do you see in that mutt anyway?"

"Do you mean Logan?" my eyes flare angrily towards Scott, "The man who is missing and possibly dead?"

That's my blunt 'don't-you-dare-insult-the-man-I-love' response, and Scott at least has the decency to flush with a little shame.

"And all this _reading my mind_ crap," I'm shouting now, unable to help myself, sweeping my hand towards Jean in a dismissive manner, "Is not helping to find him."

"No," answers Jean, her words full of sarcasm, "But I suppose the two of you getting _preoccupied_ with each other, for want of a better word, has not hindered this operation at all?"

She turns to Xavier and Scott to continue her rant, "Logan was supposed to bring Rogue back here for her own safety, not lose control of his libido with someone who is far too young for him..."

"Jean," Xavier cuts in, "Enough."

An awkward silence descends and for a moment I feel uneasy, wondering where to place my eyes and what to do with my hands, until I remember I'm not that insecure little girl anymore. Returning to this institute may make me feel like I've stepped into the past, but I've grown up over the last five years. If I'm strong enough to walk back into this damn place, then I'm sure as hell capable of walking out again.

"I came here to find Logan," I announce, my body language communicating my restored confidence, my eyes shifting boldly from Xavier, to Scott, to Jean, "And if you can't assist me with that, I'm leaving."

I hold their stares for a second longer before turning and marching out, sensing Scott starting to follow me and hearing Xavier's voice in my trail, "Leave her Scott, she'll come around in time."

_Oh will I? Unless you can magic up an AWOL Logan, I have no further business in this damn place!_

I wonder if either telepath can hear that thought? I sincerely hope they do.

So now what? As I stand on the gravelly driveway with my back to the school, I wonder what's a girl to do when her one true love, the one she never quite got close enough to, is missing-in-action?

Where does a girl turn when that despairing, disorientating feeling won't cease and she's exhausted all her options, burnt all her bridges and is utterly alone? What's the answer?

Yes, that's right. Alcohol.

I'm going to take myself to the nearest bar and drink myself into absolute oblivion, with only a hairy cactus for company.

........................................................................................................................................

"I love him. Did you know that?"

Yes, that's me talking to a plant. I'll be giving it a name next. With another drink or two I might even hear him talk back to me.

"Another shot please," I signal to the barman. "In fact, what the hell, make it two. One for me, one for the cactus."

The barman obliges and I swiftly drink both, making my throat sting, my stomach glow and my head buzz. What would the X-men think if they saw me now, swaying on my stool as I gradually lose control, intoxicating myself in an attempt to drown my agonising thoughts. I already know whose influence they'd blame...

"I've always wanted to make love to someone like Logan," I say, unsure if the cactus can understand my slurring words. "No, correction," I try to point to the plant but my hand moves in an uncontrollable zigzag, "Not someone _like_ him. I want _him_."

I contemplate this before signalling for another two shots, raising one glass after the other and downing the unforgiving liquid.

"Do you know what that jealous redhead said?" I ask the out-of-focus cactus, my words blurry and over-lapping, my head lolling forwards towards the plant.

"No, what did she say?"

See? I told you the cactus would start talking to me after another drink or two...

"She said Logan was too old for me and I was too young for Logan."

I try to focus on the plant, which has miraculously turned into three, each swimming in front of my eyes and causing my head to swirl as I try to follow their movements.

"Well let me tell you," I continue, wagging my finger loosely towards the middle of the three cacti, "I don't give a fuck what she thinks."

"Nor do I darlin'."

Isn't it strange that my cactus uses the endearing term 'darlin'' just like Logan did? And he sounds a lot like him too...

Just as fuzzy realisation hits that the growly voice is not coming from the plant after all, but instead from behind me, a clear water-filled plastic bag is placed down on the bar in front of me.

"I think this belongs to you," the voice states.

I blink at it, taking a second or two for my eyes to focus on the gleeful golden fish swimming in tight circles.

Freddie!

I clamber to my feet unsteadily, my aim being the simple task of turning around to see if the saviour of my beloved fish is who I suspect it is. But as I do so my legs give-way – _Christ, how much have I had to drink?_ – and I'm falling, saved only by strong leather-clad arms that catch me and press me securely to his bulky frame. The heady scent of the Wolverine surrounds me and I take in a deep delicious lungful.

"Logan!" I slur into his chest before the alcohol takes full effect, swallowing me down into drunken darkness, the world swimming away blackly...


	8. A Perfect Pocket of Time

I have LOVED writing this chapter! ;-)

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Why is my pulse thumping painfully at my temples?

Why does my head feel so leaden and heavy?

With no answers I snuggle further down into the plump duvet, nestling low enough into the depths of the bed to completely swaddle myself, blocking out the brightness that penetrates my eyelids.

My mind attempts to form orderly thoughts but they emerge groggy and confused, causing that hammering in my head to intensify.

Hmmm, I think I'll just keep my eyelids closed, avoid thinking for a while and snooze...

I'm slipping over the edge of sleep when another thought enters my mind:

Why hasn't my alarm gone off? Don't I have to be up for work?

My arm flops limply out the side of the bed, feeling blindly for my alarm clock, but it isn't where I'd expect it to be and the movement allows the tiniest slither of light to reach my eyes, causing me to groan in pain.

This feels suspiciously like a hangover...

Curling myself up beneath the covers I yawn lazily, noticing what a familiar and comforting scent this duvet has. It makes me feel warm, safe and tingly all over. What is that smell? It's like a wild forest and the air just before it rains, and there's a background hint of leather…

I never realised I could be so artistic when it comes to describing a scent. Maybe I'm still drunk?

Either way, it's a rousing aroma and I take in another exaggerated lungful, revelling in its soothing effect.

Fragmented memories of a mixed-up dream start to rise up between my dull throbbing pulse: Black hypnotic eyes, a shattered fish bowl, punching piggy (I quite like that part), a talking cactus, Logan kissing me (I _love_ that part), beady eyes watching us from a dark corner, the boogieman...

Aren't dreams always so inexplicable and strange?

_The boogieman..._

It's at this exact moment, right now as you're reading this line, that all my memories flood back like a packed punch that takes my breath away. The recollections of the last two days rush back into my mind so forcefully that despite my pounding head I sit bolt-upright, squinting against the painful light, taking a few moments to adjust from the contrasting darkness of my warm cocoon.

Where the hell am I?

It takes approximately two seconds to scan my surroundings and deduce that I'm in Logan's room. His leather jacket is slung casually over the chair, the ashtray has a stub of a cigar crushed amongst the ash, and actually, it's the _lack_ of personal items that is the biggest giveaway.

Not to mention his scent that hangs heavy in the air all around me, despite his noticeable absence. They should bottle that aroma and take it into the Dragon's Den; Deborah Meaden would snap it up in an instant.

I glance down to see I'm fully clothed, still clad in the same jeans and shirt I had on last night.

So no, he hasn't taken advantage of me.

Damn him.

To my left I see Freddie, swimming around gaily in a makeshift fishbowl, which looks suspiciously like a vase, no doubt stolen from somewhere within the institute. I can just imagine the beautiful fresh flowers being ruthlessly thrown aside by Logan the moment he spies it. And to my surprise, there's a small tub of fish-flakes sitting beside it.

You have to admit, despite his grumpy exterior, the Wolverine can be incredibly sweet at times.

I glance to my right to see the hairy cactus sitting proudly on the bedside table, looking perfectly at home.

Smiling to myself, despite the sore head, I slowly clamber out of bed and pad to the bathroom, grateful to see a large fluffy towel at my disposal. After a long refreshing shower I wander back into the room, wrapped in the thick towel, hair dripping in matted strings.

I feel a few notches better, but what I wouldn't give for a nice cup of Twinings tea...

I glance at the clothes I've left in a messy pile on the floor and wrinkle my nose at them dejectedly, instead opening Logan's wardrobe and picking out a white shirt of his, smelling it's delicious freshness before putting it on. It almost comes down to my knees and I have to roll up the sleeves that would otherwise dangle long past the tips of my fingers.

Throwing a few fish-flakes in for Freddie I watch as he darts up to gobble them, wholly content with his uncomplicated and happy life.

And then I hear a knock at the door.

I decide to ignore it. The only person I want to see right now is Logan, and as this is his room, he'd walk in without hesitation, right? But clearly I underestimated the gentleman-like qualities of the Wolverine, as the next sound is his voice coming through the thick wooden door:

"Marie? Are you decent? Can I come in?"

"Yeah," I answer casually.

He strides through the door looking as ruggedly handsome as the Wolverine ever could and I barely have chance to work out why he has a jug in his hand when his eyes fall onto me and he stops so abruptly the liquid content of the aforementioned jug sloshes over the side.

His eyes flame with hot fire as they drift slowly down my body and as I follow his gaze I realise my wet matted hair has pooled damp patches all over the white shirt, turning it almost transparent.

_Oops._

I smile innocently at him as his eyes manage to drag themselves back up to meet mine and he frowns at me, although I'm sure I can see the hint of a grin fighting to break through.

"Just because you're standing there in nothing more than my shirt and looking as sexy as hell," he growls, "Doesn't mean I'm not angry with you."

_Yeah, right_.

He keeps his eyes pinned on mine, trying to maintain their menacing cast, "That was a damn stupid thing you did yesterday Marie. You completely blacked out from the amount you drank. Who knows where you could have ended up?"

_Oh, save the lecture and make love to me!_

That's what I want to say. What I actually say is, "Do you have any painkillers?"

He stares at me blankly for a second.

"Darlin', why would _I_ have painkillers?"

Ah yes, good point.

Silence falls for a moment and I want to fill it with questions about what happened with the boogieman and if he's still at large. I want to thank Logan for protecting me in the selfless heroic way he did and I also want his reassurance that he wasn't hurt during all this. And I want to ask him what the jug is for. But he is staring at me with such dark passion in his eyes, so intensely; I'm unable to form any words.

"Marie," his voice is low, controlled and damn sexy, "Be warned, if you remain in that state of undress any longer, I will not be responsible for my actions."

I smile, because what else is there to do? With a threat like that, there's not a chance in hell I'll be changing anything about my state of undress. And he knows it.

His gaze inches down my body once more as he simultaneously pushes the door closed behind him with unnecessary force, making me shudder with excitement. His eyes remain on me as his hand feels behind his back, clunking the solid lock loudly into place. I guess we've learnt that leaving a door unsecured in this world is an invitation for interruption, never a consideration for what may be on the agenda…

His eyes darken to an inky black and he takes in a slow intensive breath. It's a moment of excruciating suspense, me indecently wrapped in nothing but a see-through shirt, Logan three strides away with an impressive bulge forming in his trousers. The door is locked, the boogieman is a distant memory and this is actually going to happen.

Yes, I, the Rogue, am going to experience the almighty Wolverine, raw and unleashed...

_Knock knock_

My heart sinks. This is just bloody typical! I finally gain my chance to make love to the Wolverine and what happens? Yes, the old 'knock at the door' scenario. It's like déjà vu.

Without sight of who has instigated that sound, I have a couple of confident guesses about who could be behind that door.

Firstly, it could be one of the X-men - Storm or maybe Scott - coming to recruit the Wolverine for an urgent mission that can't wait a mere twenty minutes. Or thereabouts.

Secondly, it could be the damn boogieman who has miraculously found his way to Westchester, through the maze of corridors within this institute, somehow bypassing all manner of X-men undetected, only to arrive at this door, at this moment, with bad-timing perfection.

Isn't this always the way? Damn it, just for a change, couldn't I get my wicked way with the Wolverine uninterrupted? And do I really have to wait until all the danger has subsided, the bad guys are thwart and there's a glimmer of happy-ever-after? Maybe we could get down to it right in the middle of the chaos, perhaps somewhere around about…say…now?

No, not in this world I guess.

Except I didn't take into account Logan's reaction to this unexpected interruption; his response, genius in its simplicity, is thrown over his shoulder towards the door in the no-nonsense manner that only the Wolverine could communicate so poetically:

"Whoever that is, fuck off!"

With that, he strides across the room, folds his arms around my waist, rests his forehead on mine and stares at me intensely.

And then he kisses me.

That's the last I ponder over our unknown visitor. My entire focus switches to this man with his invading tongue and roaming hands, so deliciously experienced, doing things to me, making my breath ragged and my skin flush with heat.

I'll be honest, when I dreamed of this moment, it was slow, teasing and romantic. But right now, with him working at the buttons of my shirt and my hormones in overdrive, romance is the last thing on my mind. All I want is to get him out of his clothes and fast. I'm practically tearing at them, wanting him to be naked, wanting me to be naked…

And oh god, that body of his in all its glory! His solid frame is as hard as rock, rippling with strength, towering over me hungrily.

I'm losing myself in a surge of hot-blooded hormones and I'm only vaguely aware that he's moving me towards the bed; the ease at which he does so only increases the sense of his dominance. And oh Christ, he's still doing things to me, even as he lays me down he's doing things, making my head spin, making me hot, making me love him.

I can feel his lust straining its leash, sparking in the electric atmosphere around us, and I can't wait any longer, I'm shaking with desire, my whole body is on fire with yearning like I've never experienced before. I want him so damn badly and I make sure he knows it...

The next moment he answers my pleas, thrusting himself inside me with a deep growl, filling me, stretching me deliciously. Sweet pain.

He holds there for a moment, whispering huskily into my ear, "Okay darlin'?"

With my responsive, "yes", escaping my lips in a blurry tone, he starts to move, slowly at first, his pace and forcefulness gradually increasing until I can no longer think coherently.

How long does this go on for? A minute, an hour, the entire day – what difference does it make? Time has no meaning when your whole body, every nerve ending and your entire consciousness belongs to, and is invaded by, the Wolverine. His muscles flex and pump, sweat trickles down his bare chest and I can do no other than give myself completely to him.

.............................................................................

"Marie, darlin'," he mumbles softly into my hair, "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?"

I only smile in response, still catching my breath, our exhausted sweat-covered bodies laying side-by-side.

I never want to leave this perfect pocket of time, this room, this bed, the arms of the Wolverine.

I want to freeze the moment, take a photo of this exact untainted second. Not just a two-dimensional shot, but an impossible carbon copy of our emotions; pure contentment, the sizzle in the air around us over what we've started and the priceless security I feel being wrapped in his powerful arms. The moment will always be safely stored in my memory, but never again will it feel quite as real.

Just as I predicted, my contentment begins to melt away as thoughts turn uncontrollably to my angst-filled life outside of this bedroom; the threat of the boogieman and the inevitable disapproving tones of the other X-men when they find out what's gone on between me and the big bad Wolverine.

"Are you gonna' tell me what happened back at my apartment Logan?" my words echo strangely as if they don't quite belong here, but I continue regardless, "Do you know what the boogieman wants with me and are you gonna' explain why Cerebro couldn't trace you…"

My torrent of questions is stopped mid-flow by his lips pressing to mine and swallowing my words. His hand snakes down my body, his slow caresses dissolving my thoughts. He pulls me to him, our naked bodies flush once more and his lips brush my ear as he growls softly, words heated, "There's something else I'd rather do right now darlin' and it don't involve much talking."

Hmmm, so let's see, my options are as follows:

I can insist that Logan answers my infinite list of questions in order to deduce the finer details of the last thirty-six hours, ensuring everything is explained, tallies up and makes sense.

Or, I can give myself again to the growling naked hunk-of-gorgeousness who is deliciously nibbling my ear.

Oh, to hell with it! Sometimes a girl needs to switch off from her crazy life and dedicate some time to glorious smut. I'll deal with the plot later…


	9. The Powers That Be

"_Fuck 'em!" _

I quote Logan's exact response when I confessed I'd rather remain hidden in his room than face the X-men's reaction to us being...well..._us_.

With his curt words of wisdom, Logan wrapped his hand firmly around mine and pulled me reluctantly along the corridor and down the grand staircase, insisting I "face the geeks."

The dim light slanting through the windows tells me its early evening, maybe later. Never a truer word has been spoken than the saying 'time flies when you're having fun', and the Wolverine certainly knows some tricks to take a girl's mind off a killer hangover.

Now, as we enter the empty kitchen, I reach for the switch to bath the room in cheerful light, combating the long shadows and dusk that slowly fills the corners. It amazes me how little this place has changed in five years and that overwhelming sense of nostalgia hits me again with the homely welcome this kitchen offers. Familiar sounds creep towards us from the rec-room along the corridor; a low hum of chat and the odd ripple of laughter, echoing from years long gone.

Logan busies himself making sandwiches, packing them with whatever he can find in the over-filled fridge. My eyes are on him but my mind is elsewhere, reflecting on the information he disclosed when we were too exhausted to do anything other than talk, our naked bodies entwined as his fingers drew lazy circles on my skin.

It was no surprise to learn that the freaky-eyed monsters had set upon Logan the moment they burst through the door of my apartment. We all know the Wolverine can put up a fierce fight, but with five onto one what chance did he have? He battled ferociously; I gathered that just from the feral flash in his eyes as he recalled the scene, and he grinned when he informed me that every one of them have claw-shaped scars to forever remind them of their encounter with the Wolverine.

Eventually, however, they'd overpowered him. He discussed little more on that matter and I know Logan was holding back on the gory details, but it broke my heart to imagine. Despite his healing power, he still feels pain, just like the rest of us.

When he finally accepted this was one fight he couldn't win, and when he deduced he'd given me enough time to distance myself, he went down in the next attack and stayed down, playing dead, his healing factor unknown to them.

"You still like extra mayo on your sandwich?" Logan asks me over his shoulder, bringing my thoughts into the present. I smile, surprised he remembers such a trivial fact and I take a second to soak in this perfectly serene and carefree moment.

It passes all too quickly however, replaced by a feeling of anxiety, which is explained by my no-nonsense English inner voice, "_The boogieman is still at large and he's coming to get you Rogue."_

Logan places a mug of steaming tea onto the table in front of me, staring intensely at my worried expression.

"You okay darlin'?"

I sigh deeply, my eyes sweeping up to his, "Will I always be running from the boogieman Logan? Will I forever be looking fearfully over my shoulder?"

Without hesitation his strong arms fold around me, gathering me into him.

"Marie, I will always take care of you," he kisses the top of my head through my hair before adding, "But I'll be honest darlin', it ain't safe for you here."

I look up at him and I know my eyes are as wide as saucers, full of worry.

"So I was thinking," he adds, sweeping a stray hair from my face, "You wanna' hit the road with the big bad Wolverine?"

There's a grin tugging at his lips and a glint of dangerous unknown in his eyes, triggering an uncontrollable ripple of excitement within me, despite my fears. I nod in agreement, loving his arms around me, feeling protected by his closeness.

Someone clears their throat to alert us to their presence and I break our embrace, turning to see Scott strolling into the kitchen, closely followed by Jean.

Great. Of all the hundreds of X-men residing in this place, they're the two to walk in. What are the chances?

"How's your head today Rogue?" Scott asks with a smile, immediately dissolving any tension that may or may not have settled.

I groan inside, not having considered that other residents may have witnessed Logan's return last night, complete with a drunken unconsciousness Rogue in his arms.

"I have the best hangover cure in the world," I answer with a smile, raising my mug to indicate the tea.

_Well, the second best, but I won't go into that with Cyke…_

Scott distracts from my comment, his smile dropping as he notices something amiss.

"Where are those flowers I bought you Jean?" he asks with a puzzled tone. "They were in a vase right there," he points to the table, which is bare apart from my mug of tea.

Logan and I exchange a glance but neither of us utters a word as I take a sip from my mug to smoother my smile.

Jean doesn't consider the flowers. Instead, she turns to face me with a hard stare, "Rogue, do you think it's wise you being here?"

"No," answers Logan before I get a chance to swallow my tea and speak for myself, his response thrown over his shoulder having reverted back to the all-important food preparations, "So we ain't staying."

"You're _both_ leaving?" she asks, directing this question to Logan, and I see a flash of black jealousy sparking from her eyes.

"Yeah," Logan answers casually, and if he senses that envy in her voice he chooses to ignore it, "But do you mind if we eat first? We've worked up a bit of an appetite today."

We exchange a not-so-secret smile as Logan places a packed and meaty sandwich in front of me, identical to his, and then takes a seat by my side at the table. The strength of my hunger suddenly hits me with force, but before I can take a bite, I notice Logan tensing, his every nerve prickling, the shift in his body language telling me something's wrong.

My sandwich stops centimetres from my mouth, frozen in mid-air. I can hear Jean wittering on in the background, something about setting a bad example by foolishly running off together, but her words melt into a meaningless drone.

"Logan?" my voice is thin and uncertain.

"Shhhh," he responds, standing up abruptly and sniffing the air. Jean falls silent noticing Logan's shift in stance, his senses dangerously alert. His next words make my blood run cold.

"They're here."

No one asks for clarification on who 'they' are. No one needs to.

Oh god, when is this going to end? How much more blood will be shed? And do I really have to face the boogieman and his pals with a hangover?

"How many?"

That's Scott's voice, strained and tight.

"Hard to tell," Logan says with another sniff, "Twenty at a guess. Maybe more."

Scott mutters a curse. They're so close now I can hear their footsteps marching along the corridor in military-like fashion.

Seconds before the kitchen door swings open Logan positions himself protectively between me and the intruders. In the same instant his claws bolt out, glinting menacingly, ready for the fight.

The next sequence of events is a frightening, dreamlike experience and takes place so swiftly there's barely time to react. The room fills with identical forms, each adorned with dark glasses, merciless expressions and rifles pointing threateningly to all four of us.

I can see Logan assessing the situation, calculating what options four X-men have against twenty. Scott appears to be doing the same, his finger ready at the pulse of his visor. Maybe we'd have a chance given our combined powers, if only we had time to convene and work out a strategy. But all we have are sober, uneasy glances.

The main man – the boogieman – is yet to make an appearance and as I stand in sick frozen panic it occurs to me that I've never laid my eyes upon him, despite him being a central character in my life recently.

If I put some thought into it, I'd assume he looks freakish, the object of your worst nightmares, hideously ugly features with the stench of evil surrounding him. He's the monster lurking under the bed, the dark creature that unfolds out of the shadows when you're alone at night.

So when he makes his entrance I'm taken aback not by his grotesqueness, but by the fact that he is rather gorgeous, looking remarkably like Ewan McGregor. Honestly. And not Obi-Wan Kenobi or Renton, but Ewan as Lincoln Six Echo in 'The Island.' Perfectly proportioned, smooth handsome features and ruffled dark brown hair.

Nice. Very nice.

And why not have a sexy bad guy? Look at Joaquin Phoenix playing Commodus in Gladiator. Or Zachary Quinto as Syler in Heroes. If I'm honest, I'm rather pleased I've nudged up the sex-appeal from my previous experience with Magneto.

"_Rogue,"_ my inner voices starts with an unmistakable incredulous tone, _"Are you seriously considering the attractiveness of the guy who is threatening your life?"_

I ignore her, too preoccupied with wondering if he has the same melting Scottish accent as Ewan...

But my thoughts fade out, dimmed to nothing when the boogieman's eyes fall onto mine and are so penetrating it feels like he can see right into my mind and read all my darkest secrets. I can't tear my eyes from his and he grins at me wildly, not strictly in touch with things, causing a frigid chill to blast through my veins.

I have no idea how long I'm trapped within that stare, but I feel a great sense of relief when he breaks away, setting me free, allowing my thoughts to form again. As his gaze falls upon Logan, the wicked grin instantly drops, replaced by a savage sneer.

"Oh, if it isn't the heroic boyfriend," his voice drips with sarcasm and yes, he's got the same sexy Scottish accent as Ewan. This is unreal!

"Wolverine I believe?" he continues, ignoring Logan's rumbling growl, "I've been doing a little research since our last encounter, which, if I remember rightly, left you for dead."

"Yeah, and you'd never have managed that without your four buddies to help," Logan growls back.

Dark anger clouds the boogieman's eyes but his only response to Logan's comment is a dismissive sweep of his arm.

"Enough of the pleasantries, I've come for Rogue," he states, as if that's all it would take for me to wave a cheery goodbye to my X-friends and stroll away, arm-in-arm with the monster from under my bed.

Logan positions himself directly in front of me and the boogieman; let's call him Ewan - _hell, why not?_ - sighs deeply, pacing up and down, swaggering with over-confidence.

"Wolverine, I'm a reasonable man," he says, "So I'll offer you a choice. You can hand Rogue over."

"Or?" prompts Logan when silence falls.

Ewan stops to face him squarely and his expression twists into a grimace, "Or we will tear this place apart, just like we did on our last visit. Except this time, we'll leave behind the thick stench of death. Every student and teacher will suffer."

"You sonofabitch!" Logan steps towards him, anger boiling up from beneath the surface.

"I don't believe that answers my question," Ewan responds casually, seeming undaunted by Logan's aggressive stance. He takes a deep exaggerated breath before starting up again, "Wolverine, surely you would not allow the innocent deaths of so many for the sake of one?"

Logan remains silent and I glance to my right to see Jean and Scott's pale and stony faces, neither of them speaking. What could they possibly say anyway?

"Fight me one-on-one you cowardly dick!" Logan's adrenaline is pumping, goading for the fight, "If I lose, you can do whatever the hell you want."

"Hmmm, tempting offer," Ewan taps his finger to his lips as if to consider Logan's suggestion, "But not accepted. So I'll reiterate your options; the girl or the death of every student and teacher in this school," Ewan continues through a smile, "What do you say Logan?"

"I say fuck you!"

Ewan's smile falters a little.

Goddamn, how can he put that decision on Logan's shoulders? And actually, without waving a burning bra in the air or anything, I'm not Logan's to hand over. I'm an independent woman and I can give myself to the boogieman of my own accord, if that's what I have to do.

And I know it is, because the feeling of guilt is already torturing me. I can't let them rampage this place, I can't have innocent blood on my hands.

I have no choice.

And don't think for a moment I'm a hero of any sort, because I'm not. Heroes don't wait until they have no other option before they reluctantly step forward like I'm about to. Heroes don't work themselves up into a low state of terror when faced with danger, fighting off the waves of nausea that threaten.

I reach for Logan's arm and he turns to me, his eyes filled with anguish as I speak, my voice surprisingly steady, "This is _my_ decision Logan."

He foresees exactly what I intend to do.

"No," he whispers, his lips barely moving, his claws sliding out of sight in crushing mortification.

It's all I can do to turn away from his pain-filled stare and take a shaky step towards the grinning boogieman but Logan grips my arm so tightly I can already feel the bruises forming as he turns me sharply back round to face him.

"NO!" he shouts, his tone one of fury and determination, "I won't let him have you Marie!"

"Logan," I yell back, desperate to be saved but knowing I can't be, not this time, "I'm not yours to give away!"

With those words he pulls me so close I can feel his anger coiled tightly beneath his stomach muscles and his heart thumping furiously, "You _are_ mine Marie," he says with frightening intensity, "And I will not give you to anyone else."

I'm not sure if I should feel elated by his words, or if I should stubbornly reject the idea of 'belonging' to someone, but I have little time to consider this as the boogieman interrupts the scene with a cynical laugh.

"So the Wolverine is in love huh? How sweet."

He grins around the room. No one smiles back.

"But this is not a love story," he adds in a matter-of-fact tone, his intense eyes settling on mine.

_Isn't it? Damn. _

"And do you know how I know that?" Ewan continues without waiting for an answer from his unresponsive audience, "Because I'm here to tear up this little story from the inside out. I've been brought into this drama by the _powers that be _to take this romance to breaking point."

"The powers that be?" I ask, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Rogue, do you really think you're in charge of your own destiny?" Ewan asks. "Do you Wolverine?" he adds, turning to him. "Do any of you?" he scans the four of us, his voice rising in excitement.

"No one dictates my life," growls Wolverine, "I do what the fuck I want."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong. Even the words you have just spoken are written for you, by the crazy entity that is the 'powers that be'. And by the way, I think you curse too much. You never used language like that in the movies."

"Movies?" Logan frowns deeply, "You're crazy." He turns to me, "Marie, we're dealing with an unpredictable madman here. Keep your distance."

Ewan laughs wickedly.

"Your sweetheart is willing to join me of her own free will and you're the only one standing in her way Wolverine."

The boogieman's eyes swing to mine, his fingers reaching to brush a white streak of my hair and causing my to flinch away, a reflex he ignores, "You know, I think we make a rather good-looking couple, don't you agree Rogue?"

I can feel the rumble of the Wolverine's snarl, slowly building...

"Perhaps that could be the unexpected twist in this story?" Ewan continues, ignoring any animal-like sounds, "The boogieman and the Rogue getting it on? Maybe I should start calling you Marie?"

That's all it takes to tip Logan over the edge, his claws flaying out as he takes a charged step towards Ewan, full of savagery, but the sudden movement of twenty rifles taking aim, not at Logan but instead at me, Jean and Scott, stop him in his tracks, his breathing laboured as he struggles to find control.

Tension fills the room and it seems like the walls are closing in. The Wolverine's claws remain exposed, anger flaring through every tensed muscle as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, trying to control his need to brutally deal with this madman in the only way the Wolverine knows how.

"Enough stalling," Ewan grins sickly, "It's time to make a decision. Rogue joins me, or the lives of every person in this school are sacrificed. What will it be Wolverine?"


	10. An Unexpected Twist?

_"It's time to make a decision. Rogue joins me, or the lives of every person in this school are sacrificed. What will it be Wolverine?"_

The Wolverine never did answer that question, at least not with words. He didn't need to. Everyone in that room knew he had no choice.

For me, it was like being challenged to jump off the side of a steep cliff into dark uncharted waters. As you stand precariously at the edge of the rock face, staring into the murky depths below, you can't allow yourself to think, because if you did, fear would take over and you'd back away, never to experience the terrifying thrill. You simply have to jump. So I adopted that frame of mind and without thought, I stepped forward towards the boogieman's tight and murderous grin.

This time, no one intercepted.

To those looking on it must have seemed a courageous and daring move to give myself to the grim unknown. But I'll be honest, there was no bravado involved. The action was carried out numbly, as if my limbs were not my own. My emotions had shut down in that moment, only awakening when the boogieman grasped my hand, his cold fingers curling around mine, his skin as dry as dust. I sensed Logan at the very edge of my vision flinching at the intimate gesture.

Ewan grinned, a smile filled with bitter victory, and as he led me out of the room, I turned to glance at Logan, only to see pain etched in his face and a profound strain of helplessness in his eyes.

That look will haunt me forever.

My eyes blazed back with hopeless courage as contradictory tears filled my chest and throat. I refused to cry and no one will ever know what an effort that was. I used up every reserve to maintain a strong, determined expression, but despite this, I suspect I reflected Logan's look of painful despair.

The Wolverine's parting words were directed to Ewan and spoken with cold, intense conviction:

"If you harm her in any way, I will hunt you down and slaughter you."

The prospect seemed to give him savage consolation, but the desperation in his eyes revealed the underlying truth.

His heart was breaking.

...

Goddamnit, who signed me up for this?

My mundane life, the one where I had to deal with a lecherous boss and the daily grind of a job I detested, suddenly seems immensely appealing.

I can hardly believe that only a few hours ago the Wolverine was teaching me delicious things; things that a girl barely out of her teenage years should probably not be experiencing. He had shown me what it _could_ be like, making me feel like a desirable and uninhibited woman. Now, I'm a vulnerable child again, my stomach churning with fear as I'm led outside by the boogieman.

The moon comes and goes restlessly between the clouds and the dusk creeps in, its fingertips reaching for me. A ghostly breeze weaves through the street making the trees rustle, but I'm oblivious, numb, as if I have nothing to do with this scene.

I'm ushered into the waiting stillness of the back of a van, its insides grey, windowless and dreary, and there's a faint odour of corruption lingering in the corners.

Ewan sits next to me, his savage eyes descending over my body, freezing my blood. As the engine vibrates into life and the vehicle begins to move he grins wildly, causing my heart to constrict.

This maniac is out of touch with reality, completely bonkers, and here I am by his side, speeding away from the safety of the X-men and Logan's solid protection.

I concentrate on avoiding his gaze and we exchange no words, but there's nothing to break up the colourless flow of time and the impressing quietness. It's like we're stuck in a pocket of eternity and I feel a sense of desperation to end the gnawing silence.

"Are you going to kill me?" I eventually ask, struggling to keep out a tremor of fear.

He regards me solemnly as he lights a cigarette, holding my stare through a haze of smoke.

"I think the 'powers that be' like you Rogue, so you might just survive this."

_There he goes again with that crazy talk..._

"The powers that be?" I work hard to keep my voice even, "I don't understand what you mean."

He sighs deeply, flicking ash onto the grimy floor before answering me.

"It's the person who depicts your life Rogue, the author of your story, so to speak."

_Yes, he is defiantly insane._

"If that's true, prove it," I demand, surprised by my surge of confidence, "Ask our so-called author to write something unexpected, introduce a wacky twist or something."

"It doesn't work that way Rogue."

I ignore him and ramble on in a way I can only put down to sheer panic.

"Ask her to change the story entirely; take me away from this nightmare and deviate in a whole new direction. Dye my hair blonde and call me Sookie."

_What the hell am I talking about? The boogieman's madness must be contagious..._

"Be careful what you wish for Rogue."

That's the inner English voice, only adding to the very real fear that I've lost my mind completely.

Silence falls as Ewan smiles to himself and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

"So," I start up again, "Let's clarify your role. You said you'd been sent here to test my relationship with Logan."

He shrugs casually, neither confirming nor refuting my statement.

"Seriously, are people so opposed to us being together that they'd send the boogieman and a whole army in, just to break us up? Jesus, I thought some of the X-men might murmur their disapproval about the age-gap, but this reaction is completely over the top!"

With a continued lack of response from Ewan I feel the need to persist with my zany chatter, fearful of the silence that would otherwise close in.

"It's probably worth you knowing that Logan and I haven't been together long, and by that I mean a matter of hours. Oh, and we might not even be _together_. It could turn out to be a one-night stand. Or should I say a one-_day_ stand. Either way, we really haven't discussed it..."

"I'll let you into a secret Rogue," Ewan interrupts, clearly fed up with my digressive nonsense, "The author, as you referred to her, has a slight obsession with you and the Wolverine. I don't get it, but whatever. Anyway, I have an ulterior motive to stick with the plot."

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette then blows a smoke ring into the air between us before continuing.

"You see, if I play along with this story, if I follow the script, I'll be given the opportunity to take over the world."

Now that's a concept I don't get. Why would anyone want to take over the world? Isn't daily life difficult enough without the weight of the entire planet on your shoulders?

"Can't you just hypnotise everyone to achieve that?" I ask simply.

"I can only hypnotise one person at a time," he answers with a note of annoyance, "Do you have any idea how many people live on this planet and how long it would take to hypnotise each and every one of them?"

_No. And we're not going to waste any time working it out. Let's just say we understand it's a hell of a long time and an impossible task. _

"Anyway," the boogieman continues, "That's where you come into it Rogue."

_Oh god, here we go…_

"In order to take over the world, I need to hypnotise whole countries of people at the same time. To achieve that I must combine my mutation with the power of another; a person I believe you are acquainted with."

I raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"Professor Xavier," he announces, leaving a dramatic pause before continuing, "Rogue, only you have the ability to combine my power with his, soaking in both our mutations simultaneously. Then, with the use of Cerebro, you can hypnotise entire continents, country by country. The supremacy I will gain is unimaginable!"

No way. I refuse to be a part of this.

"I won't do it," I announce with hard resolve in my voice.

He smiles grimly.

"If necessary Rogue, I'll capture that mutt of a boyfriend of yours. There's no telling what horrors I can inflict upon him."

"The Wolverine can take care of himself," I state firmly, and he knows that's true, I can tell by his faltering smile.

"Hmmm…there must be some form of bargaining power," he mutters, tilting his head to one side as he studies me, "Perhaps some hidden secret you would not want exposing?"

Actually, there isn't, and I feel a surge of relief at that knowledge. The truth is, I've led a rather innocent and moralistic life so far. Apart from putting a guy in a coma for three weeks, but that doesn't count, right? Oh, and I nearly killed Logan. Twice. But we'll conveniently disregard that too.

My thoughts end abruptly right there as the boogieman's expression clouds over and his eyes suddenly grow larger and blacker, spreading and forming into deep pits that I can't help but be drawn nauseously into.

_Oh god, he's using his freaky power to search for my non-existent deep dark secrets…_

I'm frozen in a trance where I sit, unable to tear my eyes from his. He enters my mind so intrusively it's painful. He can see all my secrets, read all my conscious and unconscious thoughts. He's looking into my soul, delving into every organ and every cell, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. I'm lost, falling into a dark dream and unable to wake myself.

I try to find that reserve of resistance, the one I used to thwart piggy, but it's unattainable, he's too damn powerful. I'm unable to process coherent thoughts and I have no sense of time as I swim senselessly within the blackness of his eyes.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the trance-like spell ends. Reality floods back into focus, the greyness of the van and the constant vibration of the engine fill my senses once again.

There's a charge of excitement emitting from Ewan and he is smiling; a great triumphant grin that stretches widely over his teeth.

It's instantly obvious he's found something he can use against me, something to pursuade me to partake in his crazy ploy, but I have no idea what and I'm too stunned to question him; too afraid of the sense of violation left crawling through my veins.

"Rogue, when you and Logan had your one-day stand, did you use any precautions?"

_What the hell...?_

I manage to muster up a hard and level look.

"That is none of your damn business!"

_Did we though? I can't recall..._

He responds through his ever-widening grin, his voice rising in elation, "Well I can confirm that you didn't. If you want to revert back to chapter eight you'll see there's no mention of any precautions."

I'm too bewildered to question his inexplicable reference to a 'chapter', because the truth is, I think he might be right about the lack of protection used.

Oops.

"So let me be the one to break the happy news," he states, "And not even a pregnancy test could detect it at this early stage. Only my all-seeing mind could know with certainty. Yes, the Rogue has fallen pregnant to the Wolverine."

_What the fuck...?_

I can hardly process this information. My heart lurches in my chest and a shock of thick panic rushes up inside me.

"And I believe," Ewan adds, his eyes merciless and calculating, "I've just found my bargaining tool."

Oh god.

This is the last thing I need.

I've no home, no job, and my only possessions are a googly-eyed fish and a hairy plant. I've been kidnapped by a crazed Ewan McGregor, I'm emotionally unstable and there's a high possibility I'm losing my mind. On top of all that, it now transpires I'm carrying the child of a man you wouldn't ever describe as 'the settling down type'.

Seriously, can my life get any more screwed?


	11. A Reputation To Protect

**A/N **– I have enjoyed writing this chapter more than any other so far and I can't work out why. Maybe it's the rare and glorious English sunshine that I've been soaking up whilst putting this together? Either way, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Whoop! :-)

* * *

After all I've been through in the past forty-eight hours, I don't have the emotional capacity to deal with this pregnancy news. I refuse to consider the fact that the Wolverine's genes are mingling with mine right now and creating a whole new individual. Can you imagine the deeply-rooted angst this poor child will inherit? Or the immense stubborn streak? Not to mention the insane hairstyle...

No, I can't deal with all that right now.

Instead, I do what any sensible, mature and responsible adult would.

I pretend it's not happening.

Yes, that's the perfect solution. Ignore it and the problem will go away, right?

Yes. Good plan. It's absolutely foolproof.

I feel better already.

Now I can focus on all the other fucked-up areas of my life, such as my lack of financial security or any form of stability, as well as the boogieman, who is observing me as he tosses his cigarette to the van floor, crushing it with his boot heel.

"No smoking around the pregnant lady," he comments through his perpetual grin.

I ignore him, because there is no pregnant lady here.

_"Rogue..."_ the inner English voice begins, wanting to discourage my denial and inform me that my 'foolproof' plan is in fact utterly foolish. But I snub her words. What does she know anyway?

I turn my attention to Ewan to drown out her gnawing English persistence, "How is this crazy plot of yours ever going to work?"

His eyebrows rise in surprise, "Haven't you caught on yet Rogue? This isn't _my_ plot."

I discard his nonsensical response and continue challenging him, if only to stave off my inner voice.

"How do you plan to deceive Xavier, who happens to be an exceptionally powerful telepath? How could you possibly bypass all manner of X-men on their home turf in order to access Cerebro and put into practice your madcap plan?"

"I don't know," he answers with a disinterested shrug, "The powers-that-be has not written that part yet. Seriously. So for now, we'll just sit tight. Something's bound to happen..."

Yes, it is undeniable. He is absolutely barmy.

We sit silently side-by-side, the engine vibrating steadily as we race along to god knows where. The blandness of my surroundings and the lack of windows are disorientating and time passes uneventfully for a while, only broken by the odd all-knowing grin from the boogieman.

The van sways slightly and Ewan and I tilt in unison, hardly even registering the movement, which is immediately followed by an unpredictable sharp swerve that causes me to slide off my chair and land awkwardly on the grimy floor.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Ewan shouts to the driver through the metal divide with a note of uneasiness in his voice.

With no answer forthcoming, the steering becomes increasingly erratic and from my position on the floor I reach for something to grasp onto - the sturdy seat leg - to stop me crashing from one side of the van to the other.

The commotion continues and the ongoing volatile rocking motion causes dizziness to set it. I grip on fearfully, sliding helplessly from side-to-side like a broken doll.

With a violent jolt the vehicle comes to an abrupt standstill, the engine cutting out dead. My eyes fall onto Ewan's and I find an unexpected smile rising on my face. I know without doubt what is unfolding outside the greyness of this metal prison.

The X-men are here.

I clamber to my feet stiffly, bruised all over from the ferocity of the ride, just as the van doors are torn off their hinges with a screeching crunch of metal. The Wolverine fills the opening, angry as hell, his dark eyes finding mine like a magnet.

My initial thought comes with a surge of relief: Logan is here and I'm safe.

My next thought rises up without warning, bringing my suppressed dilemma to the forefront of my mind: Can he detect the change in my hormones? Haven't I heard somewhere before that he can?

My eyes search his intensely but there's nothing to suggest he has picked up my 'delicate' condition. Maybe its all nonsense about him detecting hormonal scents? Or perhaps it's too early in the pregnancy? Or maybe he's too fired up? He certainly looks that way; his eyes are wild, his chest is heaving with rapid breaths and his blood-soaked shirt is clinging to every bulging muscle.

Nice.

He scans me from head to toe as if to check I'm uninjured before his eyes swivel to Ewan, glinting dangerously, his claws instantly exposed with savage abruptness.

"This ends now!" he growls, powering towards him with murder in his eyes.

I turn away, reluctant to witness the oncoming carnage, but before the Wolverine has reached him, Ewan speaks; his words causing Logan to stop dead in his tracks and hitting me like a forceful punch in the stomach.

"Rogue is pregnant with your child."

_Oh god._

For a moment Logan doesn't move. It feels like time has frozen and a black claustrophobia begins to fold in around us. And then he turns slowly, shifting his entire focus onto me. The boogieman and any murderous intentions are instantly forgotten.

Panic burns hotly in my throat as he sniffs the air, stares at me and sniffs again, then promptly turns parchment white in colour as his claws glide slowly out of sight.

So I guess he can pick up hormonal scents after all. Amazing.

Having not yet considered Logan's opinion on our unexpected news - _hell, I haven't even come to terms with it myself _- I suddenly realise I'm afraid of his unpredictable reaction.

The following three seconds become the longest I have ever known; elongating and growing into pockets of eternity.

Or maybe it isn't the seconds that are longer, but the amount of chaotic emotions that are compressed into them, so densely packed it gives the illusion of time stretching out.

I desperately try to read his initial reaction. In my mind it becomes a matter of overwhelming importance, determining our relationship and possibly our entire future. If we have one.

His response is unmistakable - sparking from his eyes with unquestionable clarity - and I can summarise it in a single word:

Panic.

Make that two words:

Overwhelming panic.

Hell, why not, let's go for three words:

Immense overwhelming panic.

He seems to sway on his feet for a moment with the intensity of his alarm. Or is that me?

What did I expect anyway? How else would the Wolverine respond to this unplanned, unexpected consequence of a one-day stand, with the added surrealness of the news being delivered by none other than Ewan McGregor?

I'm desperate to know what he is thinking, because that initial flash of panic seems to be receding and in its place is a jumble of other emotions that I can't decipher.

Wouldn't it be incredible to see his thoughts written down in front of you so you know exactly what is going through his mind, rather than speculating on the mixed expressions in his eyes?

Wouldn't it be amazing if you could just plunge into his head?

Nice trick, if it were possible. But we all know it isn't. Not in the real world anyway…

* * *

**-Three seconds earlier-**

_Sniff._

Marie? Pregnant?

_Sniff._

The scent is extremely faint, barely there at all, and I'd never have detected it without being prompted.

Jesus holy Christ! The kid's having a kid!

_My_ kid!

How the hell did this happen?

Well, I know the answer to that, but still…_what the fuck?_

Her eyes are as wide as saucers and right now she looks more innocent and childlike than ever before.

And I know she's trying to read my expression.

How am I supposed to react to this?

For the briefest moment I sway on my feet, panic rising so powerfully it affects my sense of balance. I fight off the urge to faint. I'm officially the meanest mother-fucking mutant alive and with a reputation like _that_ to protect, passing out like a pansy is not an option. Especially in front of my girl.

My next instinct is to grin wildly. I'm gonna' be a dad!

If it's a boy, be assured he'll grow to be fearless, daring and full of rebellion. If it's a girl, make no mistake; I'll bring a whole new meaning to the term 'protective father.'

But I suppress the urge to grin. It seems inappropriate considering the fear in Marie's eyes.

Does she hate me? I wouldn't blame her if she did. Goddamn, is this my idea of taking care of her? For years I've kept my distance, letting her grow up and find her independence. For five long years I've done 'the right thing', despite a constant awareness of something missing in my life.

So how is it that within hours of re-entering her life, I do precisely 'the wrong thing'?

I think those wide, lovely eyes of hers may be looking for some words of reassurance.

"Marie - " I start, my voice barely audible, even to my ears.

I have no idea what I'm about to say but I never find out, as I'm cut off by her deafening screech of, "Look out!"

It's a déjà vu moment, reminding me of the first words she ever said to me in that bar in Laughlin City, and in an instant I realise I've forgotten my own number one rule; the one I incessantly drill into every junior X-man in the danger room training sessions.

Never let your guard down.

It's the most basic of military directives and without doubt the most crucial.

**Never** let your guard down.

But in the last few seconds of time I have completely forgotten about that freaky-boogie-sonofabitch. And as a result, my last awareness, other than Marie's distraught scream, is the power-packed force of a bullet entering my head at point-blank range.

My world goes black.


	12. A Bloody Mess

I'm dipping my toe into a bit of murky darkness here (couldn't resist), but stay with me, it's leading somewhere that might just surprise you... :-)

* * *

The van quakes as Logan's adamantium weight collapses onto the floor with a sickening thud. I try not to allow the phrase 'dead weight' to enter my mind, but it circles there like an incessant bird of prey.

_Dead weight. Dead weight. Dead weight. Dead._

Fear rises up in my throat like bile at the sight of his unmoving body and the thick blood oozing from his head, spreading rapidly across the floor like a black liquid shadow.

I suppress my panic, telling myself he'll survive this, because it's only a matter of time before his healing power takes over and forces that bullet out, right? The wound will zip closed and the only evidence of this horror will be the blood that creeps across the floor in an ever-growing dark puddle.

So much blood.

If only I'd been quicker. If only I'd detected the attack one second sooner, maybe even half a second would have been enough to prevent this nightmare.

Where the hell are the other X-men? Did Logan seriously take out all those guys on his own?

I guess he did.

I wince at the hellish scene around me and decide that the powers-that-be, if there is such a thing, must wholly despise me.

Wrenching my eyes from Logan - _dead weight, dead weight, dead_ - I revert to Ewan to see his entire face drawn back in a tight grin, turning my anguish into fierce rage with such vehemence it makes my head pound.

Unconsciously, my fist compresses with all the anger and hatred I feel as a result of Logan's grim condition and with a swinging punch, I smash into the leathery pocket of the boogieman's eye. My knuckles crack with the impact, splintering his eye socket, the spongy eyeball bursting in a liquid pulp.

Now that felt good.

Ewan opens his mouth as if to scream, staggering backwards as his hands fly up to protect his eye - _too late _- and a stem of blood flows down his face like an oil slick.

In his shock, he drops the gun.

There's a single frozen beat of time where neither of us moves, glancing firstly to each other and then to the gun, which has landed with a vibrating crack by Logan's shoulder, an equal distance from each of us.

We both know this could be the turning point.

Whichever of us grasps that gun first will determine how this entire scene unfolds. It will be the deciding factor on how long this crazy nightmare continues and whether I can escape from it.

It's a 'kill or be killed moment'. Literally.

Time moves in slow motion as we swoop towards the weapon. He is fast, but so am I, ignoring the pain of my broken knuckles as I grapple in desperation. My fingers brush the surface of the cold metal but I'm unable to get a handle on it. The boogieman lunges, his shoulder veering in my direction to knock me off balance, but I manage one final grueling stretch and my fingers curl around the weapon, gripping tightly and whisking the gun from the boogieman's reach.

My chest constricts with terror as I point it squarely at the inch-wide area between Ewan's eyes and he freezes, the grin dropping instantly.

That one victorious feat has switched the balance of power onto its head; it has entirely changed the possibilities now open to me. But I'm too wound up to feel relief and my fears for Logan prevent any sense of triumph.

_Dead weight. Dead._

My breathing has stopped and I realise I am completely unprepared for this moment.

Have you ever pointed a gun at someone?

No?

Nor have I. Until now.

And let me tell you, it's terrifying.

I have the power to kill. Or not, if I so choose. His life is in my hands. So why am I the one feeling petrified?

I flash a glimpse at Logan's unresponsive form - _why isn't that damn bullet exiting his head?_ - and I already know what he'd be saying, if only he were conscious:

_"This is your chance to escape Rogue. Keep the gun pointed at him and back your way out of here. Run!"_

But I can't. I refuse to leave Logan in such a vulnerable state with this madman. And for my own sanity I need to see the Wolverine recover from this. But the wait is unbearable.

I take a step backwards out of Ewan's reach, careful to avoid treading on one of Logan's flailed arms, the gun never leaving the direction of the boogieman's forehead, barely able to maintain its target due to my uncontrollable trembling fear.

Could I pull this trigger? Do I really have the capability of murder?

This standoff could go on forever. This scene could be the rest of my life, right here in this van with its dreary grey shell and bloody floor. A sick coppery scent fills my lungs and my arm is starting to ache from the weight of the gun.

So now what?

Ewan drops his hand from his face exposing his eye; an angry mass of pulpy purple flesh - _nice work Rogue, even if I do say so myself _- and through that sneering grin, his words break the tense silence.

"How do you think he took the news Rogue?"

_What the hell?_

"You know," he continues in response to my confused expression, "About the mini-mutant."

He waves a hand in the direction of my stomach as if to clarify his meaning.

Is he serious? Does he want a casual conversation right now, down the barrel of a gun? Is he really making small talk after I've just dealt a blow that may have permanently damaged his eyesight, not to mention that freaky hypnotic power of his?

Seemingly he does.

"I wonder what he was about to say before I put a bullet through his skull?"

I don't answer, but the truth is, I wonder too. He only got as far as saying my name. Giving it a moment's thought, I speculate it may have gone something like this:

_"Marie, I'm the badass Wolverine. I'm all cage-fighting and rule-breaking. I don't do wrinkly bundles of cuteness, coo-cooing and bedtime lullabies. It just ain't me darlin'."_

I force myself to switch off from that daunting prediction, because where the hell would that leave me? Instead, I breathe in the stale air and focus on the boogieman, sternly reminding myself this is not the time or place to analyse Logan's reaction to our unexpected news.

Ewan glances at the Wolverine's unmoving corpse - _did I say corpse?_ - then studies me intensely as he says, "I don't think that bullet's coming out Rogue."

Panic surges up at hearing the words that are already stirring in the back of my mind.

"Shut the fuck up!"

He ignores my warning, despite the gun pointing threateningly at his good eye, seeming to thrive off my escalating hysteria.

I fight hard to remain calm upon hearing his next words:

"It seems the powers-that-be have chosen to kill off the Wolverine. How about that for an unexpected twist?"

I refuse to believe him. A point-blank bullet to the head just takes a little longer to recover from.

Right?

"Maybe the powers-that-be will kill _you_ off," I throw back, my finger squeezing the trigger, my heart tightening in synchrony with the move.

_Millimetres__. That's all it will take to end this..._

"Oh, but she won't kill me off," he states with firm confidence, "Not here. Not in this chapter."

"How can you be so sure?" I challenge, my finger turning white with the pressure I'm squeezing onto the trigger, my hand shaking with dread. I'm out of my depth here...

"My certainty comes from you Rogue. I've been inside your head. I know you. I can identify all your insecurities, fears and weaknesses. And I know you will _never_ pull that trigger."

_Just a little more pressure. It'll take less than a second..._

But I can't unearth whatever it is I need to cross _that_ line and it feels like I'm sinking into the floor with the realisation that the boogieman is right. I can't pull the trigger.

_"You've forgotten your one last reserve Rogue; the one you promised yourself never to utilise."_

That's the inner English voice, and it takes me a moment to work out what she's referring to: The Wolverine in my head, a constant presence since the events of Liberty Island. I can draw on _his _resource; the savagery that lurks within him, to help me finish this.

I mentally call for him, and when he doesn't emerge, I search my mind, every dark corner, only to discover with an intense swell of alarm that he is no longer with me; his presence has evaporated. When the hell did that happen? He's always there, the one familiar constant in my head. Even when I try to block him out, he stubbornly remains, forever watching over me from the shadows.

My eyes fall to Logan's lifeless body and I wonder with rising fear if there is a connection between his current physical state and the sudden absence of his existence in my head.

_Oh god, no. _

_Please no._

Desperate tears flood my eyes. Why isn't that fucking bullet coming out of his skull?

"Logan," I whimper aloud, my self-control starting to break, "Please..."

Please what?

Please push that bullet out of your brain and wake up.

Please give me the courage to pull the trigger and end this nightmare once and for all.

Please hold me close and tell me everything will be okay.

Please survive this so you can love me and our baby…

And there it is. With a gush of overpowering emotion I realise I want this unexpected mish-mash of genes growing inside me, and the strength of my need surprises me.

Yet it only serves to make this situation all the more dire.

"Poor little Rogue," Ewan cuts into my thoughts with mock pity, "Still hoping for the happily-ever-after ending, huh?"

I'm starting to unravel...

"I wouldn't make any assumptions," he goes on, "I know the powers-that-be and she doesn't always opt for a happy ending."

"A happy ending?" I yell hysterically, losing grasp of my sanity, "Look at me! Look around me!" I sweep the gun in an arc to indicate the blood bath that surrounds us. "My whole life is a fucking mess! The only man I have ever loved is dead and his blood is soaking into my goddamn shoes! And the only way out of here is to pull this trigger! This is no happy fucking ending!"

Any capacity I had for rational thought has depleted. All the will drains out of me with the tears that fall freely, blurring my vision. I sob openly, not giving a damn, falling to my knees onto the bloody floor, the gun only loosely pointing towards Ewan with complete disinterest in keeping up this bravado.

I had my chance but I couldn't find the courage to pull that damn trigger.

And Logan is dead.

It's too much to bear.

The gun slips out of my grasp and hits the floor with a juddering clang, masking the soft clink of a single bullet bouncing nearby. With my head in my hands I fail to see Logan's eyes blink once, twice, as he regains consciousness, furrowing his brow as he refocuses on his surroundings.

It's not his sudden movement that alerts me to the fact he is not only conscious but exuberantly alive, its the vicious roar that rebounds off the walls as he leaps up, claws exposed, plunging deep into the boogieman's stomach, all in one fluid, heart-stopping movement.

It happens so quickly I barely have time to take it in.

There's a moment of stunned and eerily calm stillness as the boogieman's bulging eyes swivel from Logan to me, and for a moment that sickly grin remains, a horrible grimace of hate and rage. Nausea seers through me as Logan twists his claws in Ewan's stomach, the sound indescribable, the gore causing me to retch.

The boogieman's mouth foams and his face is a silent screaming mask of ugliness. Slowly and somewhat leisurely, only after spewing a huge gout of blood, does the fierceness die out of his face and the grin slip away.

Logan's claws retract with a growl and the boogieman's corpse slumps to the floor. I stagger onto my feet, backing away unsteadily from the carcass, my eyes wide in horror and unable to take my eyes off the carnage around me.

So much blood.

I think I must be in shock, as I'm only dimly aware of Logan's hands falling onto my shoulders, gripping hard before pulling me into him to block the view of our horrifying surroundings.

"You're alive," I manage in a choked sob, muffled into his chest.

Very softly, so quietly that it might have been a thought in my own head, Logan whispers, "Marie, baby, it's over."

As my tears soak his shirt, a mixture of emotions scramble through my mind:

Elation that Logan is alive.

Horror at the scene I've just witnessed.

Fear over what the future holds.

But mainly, I feel relief.

It's over.

* * *

I had to wrap this story up as it was sending me bonkers! Especially around chapters nine and ten - I was close to packing myself off to the nearest loony bin - hahaha! Regardless of almost losing my sanity, I have TRULY LOVED writing this story and thoroughly enjoyed dabbling in a bit of metafic.

Anyway, it's not strictly over, not quite, and hence why that little 'complete' box is not yet ticked.

You see, the badass Wolverine and our kooky little Rogue have a 'mini-mutant' on the way and I'd like to explore what the future holds for the three of them.

A little epilogue, you might say.

Will they stay together? Will their child be as crazy-haired as expected? How will they cope and how will it all go down with the other X-men? My mind is already racing!

I know this latest chapter went a little dark but I promise the epilogue will lift this story back into the lighter zone.

I owe a huge bold and capitalised **THANK YOU** for every encouraging review and PM. It truly does keep me writing. I'll be including some much-deserved shout-outs to those folks at the end of the epilogue.

Anyway, as much as I love this crazy writing world, my attentions now turn to the World Cup (England vs USA tonight, I can't tell you how excited I am for that game! Whoop whoop!) so it may take a little longer than usual to pull the final chapter together. I predict a fortnight? Ish?

X


	13. The Epilogue

This is my last posting for a while and I wanted to end on something a little different from my usual stuff.

The format is loosely based on 'Touch of Intimacy' by MissMarie9 (although MissMarie's work is far more poetic then mine!).

The chapter is broken up into snippets of time so you can see how Wolvie and Rogue's future rolls out.

Here goes...

* * *

**The immediate aftermath**

A blistering hot shower has washed away the boogieman's stench but not the raw memories. I gaze at Freddie, circling merrily in his fishbowl, feeling ridiculously jealous of his simple life.

"You okay darlin'?"

A billow of steam follows Logan as he exits the bathroom. With only a towel wrapped around his waist my eyes are drawn to his deliciously imposing chest.

_I am now_, I think to myself.

"You wanna' talk?" he asks.

I shake my head. I'm not ready.

"You want me to take your mind off things?" he says with a grin, striding towards me until he's so close I have to crane my neck to look into his darkened eyes.

"What do you have in mind?" I murmur, knowing exactly what he has in mind.

He doesn't tell me.

He shows me.

More than once.

* * *

_**T**__**hat**_** talk**

"Are you sure Logan? Are you absolutely positive you want this baby?"

His smile spreads all the way to his eyes and his one-word answer is filled with warm certainty:

"Yes."

"Are you scared?" I ask, after a moment's hesitation.

"Yes."

Tears fill my eyes as I confess, "Me too."

"Hey," he whispers soothingly, wrapping me in his arms and resting his forehead on mine, "We can do this."

He holds me for a long time, silently, thoughtfully.

I contemplate. Maybe we _can_ do this.

* * *

**Home**

"You are welcome to stay here Rogue," Xavier's offer is made through gentle all-knowing eyes, "Both of you."

I never ask if he's implying me and Logan, or me and the baby. Either way, I accept his offer.

"You wanna' live with these geeks?" Logan asks when we're alone, surprised by my decision.

"I'll take it one day at a time," I answer.

The days spiral on...

* * *

**Breaking the news**

He grasps my hand as he informs them. There's unwavering determination in his voice and his body language is equally resolute.

Uneasy glances are exchanged. Subdued words of congratulations are politely offered.

"They'll get used to the idea," Logan assures me later.

* * *

**Overheard conversations**

"So the Wolverine is a one-woman man now?" Jean asks with a hint of flirtation.

I know I shouldn't eavesdrop and I'm aware his response could break my heart in an instant. But their voices drift from the kitchen and I'm rooted to the spot...

"Always have been," he answers casually, his chair scraping the floor as he rises to leave, "I was just waiting for the right woman."

**

* * *

**

A commitment, Wolverine style

"You know I ain't the marrying type, right?"

I nod.

There's a moment's silence before he speaks again:

"You know I'll never leave you, right?"

I smile.

That's good enough for me.

**

* * *

**

Not feeling my best

The baby is due any day. I'm exhausted. I'm enormous. I waddle when I walk.

"You look beautiful," Logan comments, out of the blue.

**

* * *

**

The birth

Pain. Excruciating pain. Alarm at how unprepared I am for this raw agony.

A scream - _my scream_ - fills the room in unison with an unbearably powerful contraction.

There's fear in Logan's eyes and a sense of helplessness envelops him.

"One more push," I hear through a red haze of anguish.

I give it all I have.

**

* * *

**

Uncontrollable emotion

I've never seen the Wolverine cry.

As he stares in awe at our newborn baby girl, his eyes glisten with tears.

**

* * *

**

Homecoming

"Meet our daughter," Logan says proudly, enchanted by our pink, wide-eyed and ever-squirming baby girl.

They swarm her, cooing and clucking.

"See?" Logan says under his breath, "I told you the geeks would get used to the idea."

**

* * *

**

No one said it was going to be easy

I'm grouchier than ever from sleep-deprived nights.

Sometimes I snap at him.

Sometimes he snaps back.

Sometimes I cry.

He holds me close until the tears stop.

**

* * *

**

If I could freeze one moment in time

I stroll into an unusually quiet rec-room; even the TV is turned down to a barely audible hum.

There on the sofa is Logan, stretched out in peaceful slumber, our three-month-old daughter sleeping soundly on his chest; her cheeks flushed a hot pink, her chubby fist gripping his dog tags.

That sight is worth all the sleepless nights.

**

* * *

**

Second-birthday-party-mania

A dozen screaming, giggling, sugar-fuelled and over-excited children run around with snot bubbles blowing from their noses and chocolate round their mouths.

"Give me an X-mission any day," Logan says with a grim smile.

There are chocolate smudges on his shirt.

**

* * *

**

Distractions

"Logan?"

"Huh?" his disinterested response is spoken without taking his eyes off the hockey game.

"I'm pregnant again."

The game is instantly forgotten.

**

* * *

**

A sibling

The pain returns.

Another baby girl arrives.

**

* * *

**

I've never liked the colour pink

**  
**"So much goddamn pink," Logan mutters, glancing around the girl's chaotic bedroom.

We hear them before we see them, bursting through the door from school, hopping excitedly around our legs.

"What's your favourite colour daddy?" they echo in unison.

"Pink," he answers without hesitation, catching my eye and winking.

* * *

**A plea**

"Logan, I'm not just the mother of your children. I'm Rogue. I'm an X-man. Have you forgotten that?"

"No," he answers with exasperation, "But this mission is too dangerous for you."

I'm perched on the edge of our bed. He's on his knees in front of me, begging, literally.

"Please Marie, you can't put yourself at risk. Our girls need you. _I_ need you."

I reluctantly agree.

In my heart, I know it's the right decision.

**

* * *

**

Through the generations

"How was school today honey?" I ask, retying a green hair ribbon that has loosened itself.

"Lucy Summers said daddy has freaky scary claws that come out of his hands."

Logan and I exchange a silent glance, but our daughter seems untroubled, chattering on obliviously...

"I told Lucy that claws are cool and my daddy would win her daddy in a fight any day."

"That's my girl," Logan says through a grin.

**

* * *

**

The mayhem continues

"Girls, can't you just settle down for one minute?" Logan's patience is thinning as he tries to focus on some mission blueprints.

Is he kidding? Their squealing, giggling and bickering never ceases.

"This is a crazy existence," I hear him mutter as I stroll in from the bathroom.

"It's about to get crazier," I whisper to myself, staring down at the positive pregnancy test.

**

* * *

**

Double trouble

Twins? Oh god...

**

* * *

**

Never again

"This is the last time I carry your offspring Logan. I swear it."

He grins in response, smoothes a hand over my hugely swollen stomach and kisses my forehead.

"I love ya' Marie."

Yeah, and it was exactly _that_ kind of talk that got me into this predicament in the first place.

I tilt my head up towards him and I can't help but smile.

**

* * *

**

Girl power

Our beautiful identical twin daughters arrive safely into the world on a crisp autumn morning.

Logan and his four doting girls.

Five, if you include me.

**

* * *

**

A welcome like no other

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!"

His eyes light up as they run across the lawn towards him bubbling with excitement, the older girls reaching him first, the twins stumbling along clumsily behind, their chubby legs still mastering the art of graceful balance.

He's suited up from a mission, there's exhaustion in his face, and I pretend I don't see the flecks of dried blood on leather.

They throw themselves into him and he hugs them tightly, fiercely, sweeping up the twins - one in each arm - when their unsteady little legs finally reach him.

Later, he hugs me too.

**

* * *

**

A bedtime story

I peep through the door.

Four brunette girls snuggle into him, listening with adoring hazel eyes as he reads 'Little Red Riding Hood'.

The eldest are too old for that story, but they listen intently anyway, loving his closeness.

**

* * *

**

Growing up

Their bedrooms gradually change from disney, dolls and all things pink, to make-up, accessories and boy-band posters.

Logan frowns.

**

* * *

**

A fashion statement

"What the hell do you think you're wearing?"

"Dad..." our eldest begins to protest.

"It's too short," he states in his 'this-is-not-up-for discussion' tone.

"It's only just above my knees. It's what all the girls are wearing."

"I don't wanna' hear it. Change."

With one hand on her hip and her dark eyes set on his, she radiates stubbornness.

"I'm fifteen dad. I can wear what I want."

That frown of hers is remarkably like her father's.

**

* * *

**

Sweet sixteen

The emerald green dress she wears brings out the colour of her eyes and she twirls excitedly, dark silky hair streaming out behind her.

"You look beautiful honey," I gush, "Where are you going?"

"I've got a date," she answers with a sweet twinkle in her eye.

"Like hell you have!" Logan growls, suddenly appearing in the doorway from nowhere.

**

* * *

**

Fierce Love

"Logan, you have to give the girls their freedom."

"I know!" he snaps, running a frustrated hand through his wild hair, "It's just..."

He pauses, searching for the words, and when he finds them, his voice is almost a whisper.

"…no one ever warned me how painful it would be to let them go."

**

* * *

**

Quiet reflections

"Listen," I whisper.

Logan pauses for a moment.

"What?" his face creases with puzzlement, "I can't hear anything."

"Exactly," I smile.

The two older girls are out and Storm had kindly offered to entertain the twins for a few hours.

Relishing the blissful silence for a few minutes I reflect over our lives, knowing with certainty that Logan is doing the same.

"Do you have any regrets?" I ask quietly, glancing downwards to avoid reading his expression, a little apprehensive of his response.

He nestles closer, reaching for my hands, looking solemnly into my eyes.

"I wouldn't change a single thing darlin'."

**THE END**

* * *

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review:

**Wolverette **(happily-ever-after, just for you!)**, BrownEyedDevil** (juiciest and craziest reviews ever – love it - lol!), **Alexmonalisa **(yes, I did go a little bonkers for a while – haha! Hope the last exam went okay?)** MidLifeCrisis, Ebony10, dancing21, pepper-maroon, CaptMacKenzie, Chs14girl, Monsterchild, JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo** (I can catch up on 'First A Peek, Then A Poke' now…yay!), **HarryPotterFanaticToTheEnd, addicted2fic, BlackQueen92, cherish15 and I'mYourChemicalRomance.** Also thanks to all those who added this to their favs / alerts etc. Phew!

Bye for now, I'm off to grapple with real life…

Comic-cake x


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